
GopyiightN^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPQSm 



X 



BRITISH VERSE 

FOR 

BOYS 



SELECTED AND EDITED BY 
DANIEL V. THOMPSON, A.M. 

HEAD OF THE DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH IN THE 
LAWRENCEVILLE SCHOOL 




NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
1916 



^^ 






Copyright, 1916, 

BY 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 



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MAY 25 i9l6 
©CI.A43122() 



PREFACE 

All anthologies are experiments. This one is an experiment 
in a peculiar degree, for it undertakes to present, in three 
hundred pages, the whole field of so-called modern British 
poets, from Chaucer to Alfred Noyes, to that imaginary but 
oft-invoked reader, the average boy. To be exact, there are 
ninety-five poets, represented by two hundred and sixty-one 
pieces. In addition, there are notes, both general and specific, 
and a section devoted to references likely to be of use to the 
young student who is doubtful as to the meaning of technical 
terms, or as to the significance of historical periods, movements, 
or names. Moreover, both in the table of contents and in the 
text, ever\' poet's date and place of birth and death are pre- 
sented to the reader's eye. 

Certain principles have governed the selection of the poems. 
In the first place the organic unity of British Poetry is illustrated 
by a large variety of examples representative of every period. 
In the second place, the following of a chronological order is ex- 
pected to inculcate in the boy's mind both a sense of this vital 
unity, and of that diversity between periods which signifies 
advance or reaction. In the third place, while great names 
have been accorded extensive representation, many lesser 
writers have been included, chiefly because their work offers 
some special vantage-ground for the young student's considera- 
tion. Finally, and most seriously, the selection has been made 
with the hope that the boy of normal ability may find some re- 
ward in every piece, and, in the collection as a whole, particular 
pieces distinctly to his taste. This last principle has involved 
the introduction of some selections which are admittedly not 
great poetry. I believe these comparatively commonplace ex- 
amples will serve to encourage the boy of small cultivation, or 
extreme diffidence, and, at the same time, exemplify to the 
keener student the difference between the popular and the great . 
in poetry. Indeed, a faithful reading should arouse in any boy 
some critical sense of the more perfect work. This I believe 
with the more confidence because the examples chosen are 



iv Preface 

mainly works which the innate understanding of the boy or his 
youthful experience will have prepared him to grasp. He may 
find the form puzzling, or the words new, but if he will press 
through these to the thought or emotion that lies within the 
poem, he will find in every case that it is a thought or emotion 
which he, in common with older readers, can apprehend or ap- 
preciate. The growth of the sense for beauty is mainly what is 
known as a by-product. 

As to the editorial matter, both the paragraphs deahng with 
the authors and those about the poems are undoubtedly open 
to the criticism "too much" or "too little". They embody 
only one purpose, — to guide the tentacles of the boy's mind to- 
wards the poet or his work. When these "letters of introduc- 
tion" have been subjected to the test of actual use in the class- 
room, I hope to make them fuller if they need to be fuller, 
shorter if they need to be shorter, and everywhere more accurate 
and stimulating. 

To my brother-teachers, and to all lovers of poetry and boys, 
I frankly appeal, in this tentative edition, for counsel, both 
critical and constructive, of the most impersonal and unembar- 
rassed character. To bring the poets and the boys together is 
not a task for any one man, but may be well done by a consen- 
sus of sympathetic opinion. 

There are many " friends and fellow-students," to use Lowell's 
old-fashioned phrase, to whom I owe a hearty expression of 
thanks for advice and other help in the making of this book. 
They are gratefully remembered by one who is oppressed by 
the thought of kindnesses he can never repay. 

It is proper to mention the four publishers whose permission 
has been graciously accorded for the use of copyright poems: 
the John Lane Company, pubKshers of Henry Newbolt's The 
Island Race; Dodd, Mead and Company, publishers of Austin 
Dobson's poems; the Macmillan Company, publishers of the 
works of John Masefield; and the Frederick A. Stokes Company, 
publishers of the poems of Alfred Noyes. 

D. V. T. 

Lawrenceville, February, igi6. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface iii 

Geoffrey Chaucer, 1340 (?) London — London, 1400 
The Canterbury Tales: Selections from the Prologue 

1 . The Tabard Inn i 

2. The Knight 2 

3 . The Squire 3 

4. The Prioress 4 

5. The Clerk 5 

6. The Parson 6 

Old Ballads 

Sir Patrick Spens 8 

Chevy Chase : 1 1 

Lord Lovel 19 

Barbara Allen's Cruelty 21 

The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington 22 

Sir Edward Dyer, 1550 (?) Somersetshire — London, 1607 

My Mind to Me a Kingdom Is 24 

Edmund Spenser, 1552, London — London, 1599 

Two Sonnets 

1. Sweet is the rose but grows upon a brier 25 

2. One day I wrote her name upon the strand 26 

Hope Deferred 26 

A Selection from the Faerie Queene 27 

John Lyly, 1554 (?) London — London, 1606 

Cupid and Campaspe 28 

Sir Philip Sidney, 1554, Kent — Netherlands, 1586 

Come Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace 29 

My True Love hath my heart 29 

V 



vi Table of Contents 

PAGE 

Michael Drayton, 1563, Warwick — London, 1631 

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part 30 

Agincourt 30 

Christopher Marlowe, 1564, Canterbury — London, 1593 

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love 34 

Tamburlaine to Calyphas 35 

William Shakspere, 1564, Stratford-on-Avon — Siratford-on- 
Avon, 1616 

Under the Greenwood Tree 36 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind 36 

It was a Lover and his Lass 37 

Where the Bee sucks, there suck 1 38 

A Sea Dirge 38 

Hark, Hark, the Lark 38 

Silvia 39 

Crabbed Age and Youth 39 

Five Sonnets 

1. When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes 40 

2. When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 40 

3. Full many a glorious morning have I seen 41 

4. When in the chronicle of wasted time 41 

5. Poor Soul, the center of my sinful earth 42 

Henry V to his Troops before Harfleur 42 

Ben Jonson, 1573, London — London, 1637 

To Celia 43 

The Noble Nature 44 

Simplex Munditiis 44 

To the Memory of My Beloved Master, William Shakspere, and 

what He Hath Left Us 45 

George Wither, 1588, Hampshire — London, 1667 

Shall I, Wasting in Despair 47 

William Browne, 1591, Devonshire — Devonshire, 1643 

Epitaph on the Countess Dowager of Pembroke 49 



Table of Contents vii 

PAGE 

Robert Herrick, 1591, London — Devonshire, 1674. 

To the Virgins to Make Much of Time 49 

Delight in Disorder 50 

Whenas in silks my Julia goes 50 

To Daffodils 51 

To Anthea Who May Command Him Anything 51 

Henry King, 1592, Buckinghamshire — Sussex, 1669 

Like to the Falling of a Star 52 

George Herbert, 1593, Wales — Wiltshire, 1633 

Virtue 53 

The Pulley 53 

The Bosom Sin 54 

The Elixir 54 

Edmund Waller, 1606, Hertfordshire — Beacons field, 1685 

On a Girdle 55 

John Milton, 1608, London — London, 1674 
Five Sonnets 

1 . On His Having Arrived to the Age of Twenty-three 56 

2. To the Lord General Cromwell, May 16, 1652 56 

3. On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 57 

4. On His Blindness 57 

5. To Cyriack Skinner 58 

Epitaph on the Admirable Dramatic Poet, W. Shakspere 58 

Sir John Suckling, 1609, Middlesex — Paris, 1642 

Why so pale and wan, fond Lover 59 

Richard Lovelace, 1618, Kent — London, 1658 

To Lucasta on Going to the Wars 60 

To Althea from Prison 60 

John Dryden, 1631, Northamptonshire — London, 1700 

Under the Portrait of Milton 61 

A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687 62 

Alexander's Feast, or the Power of Music 64 



viii Table of Contents 

PAGE 

John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, 1647, Oxfordshire — Oxford- 
shire, 1680 

Epitaph on Charles Second 69 

Matthew Prior, 1664, East Dorset — Wimpole, 1721 

A Reasonable Aflfliction 69 

The Remedy Worse than the Disease 70 

Joseph Addison, 1672, Wiltshire — London, 1719 

The Spacious Firmament on High 70 

To Mira on Her Incomparable Poems 71 

Isaac Watts, 1674, Southampton — Hertfordshire, 1748 

The Sluggard 71 

How doth the little busy Bee 72 

Our God, our Help in ages past 73 

John Gay, 1685, Devonshire — London, 1732 
The Lion and the Cub 74 

Alexander Pope, 1688, London — Twickenham, 1744 

Universal Prayer 75 

Inscribed on the Collar of a Dog 77 

Epigram 77 

On a Certain Lady at Court 77 

Two Views of Addison 

1. From the Epistle to Mr. Addison, 17 15 78 

2. From the Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, 1735 78 

Henry Carey, 1700 (?), London — London, 1743 

A Maiden's Ideal of a Husband 79 

Sally in Our Alley 79 

James Thomson, 1700, Scotland — Richmond, 1748 
Rule, Britannia 81 



Table of Contents ix 

PAGE 

Samuel Johnson, 1709, Staffordshire — London, 1784 

If a man who turnips cries 82 

On the Death of Dr. Robert Levet 83 

Thomas Gray, 1716, London — Cambridge, 1771 
On the Death of a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold- 
fishes 84 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 85 

Oliver Goldsmith, 1728, Ireland — London, 1774 

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 90 

William Cowper, 17.31, Hertfordshire — Norfolk, 1800 

Boadicea, an Ode 91 

On the Loss of the Royal George 93 

Epitaph on a Hare 94 

The Diverting History of John Gilpin 95 

Thomas Holcroft, 1745, London — London, 1809 

Gaffer Gray 104 

Charles Dibdin, 1745, Southampton — London, 1814 

Tom Bowling 105 

The Sailor's Consolation 106 

Richard Brinsley Sheridan, 1751, Dublin — London, 1816 

I would, says Fox, a tax devise 107 

William Blake, 1757-, London — London, 1827 

The Lamb 107 

The Tiger 108 

Robert Burns, 1759, Alloway — Dumfries, 1796 

A Red Red Rose 109 

Jean no 

Bonnie Doon no 

John Anderson in 

Mary Morison 112 

Highland Mary 112 



X Table of Contents 

PAGE 

To a Mouse 113 

For A' That and A' That 115 

My Heart's in the Highlands 116 

Auld Lang Syne 117 

Macpherson's Farewell 118 

Bruce to His Arm}' 119 

Lady Carolina Nairne, 1776, Perthshire — Perthshire, 1845 

The Laird of Cockpen 1 20 

John Hookham Frere, 1769, London — Malta, 1846 

The Boy and the Wolf 121 

William Wordsworth, 1770, Cumberland — Westmoreland, 1850 

The Solitary Reaper 122 

She was a phantom of delight 123 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 1 24 

A Slumber did my spirit seal 125 

Written in March 125 

The Influence of Natural Objects 126 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 1 28 

To a Skylark 1 28 

The Happy Warrior 1 29 

Five Sonnets 

1. Composed upon Westminster Bridge 132 

2. Milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour 132 

3. Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland, 

1802 133 

4. A Flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 133 

5. The World is too much with us 134 

Sydney Smith, 1771, Essex- — London, 1845 

A Salad 134 

Sir Walter Scott, 1771, Edinburgh — Abbotsford, 1832 

Lochinvar 135 

Proud Maisie 137 

Rosabelle 137 

Breathes there a man with soul so dead 139 

Border Ballad 140 



I 



Table of Contents xi 

PAGE 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1772, Devonshire — London, 1834 

An Epigram 140 

Metrical Feet; Lesson for a Boy 141 

Work Without Hope 141 

Kubla Khan 142 

Robert Southey, 1774, Bristol — Keswick, 1843 

The Cataract of Lodore 143 

My days among the dead are passed 147 

Joseph Blanco White, 1775, Seville — Liverpool, 1841 
To Night 148 

Walter Savage Landor, 1775, Warwick — Florence, 1864 

Shakspere and Milton 148 

Macaulay 149 

Robert Browning 149 

Thomas Campbell, 1777, Glasgow — Boulogne, 1844 

Ye Mariners of England 150 

Hohenlinden 151 

Thomas Moore, 1779, Dublin — London, 1852 

Believe me if all those endearing young charms 152 

The Harp that once through Tara's halls 153 

The Light of Other Days 153 

The Last Rose of Summer 154 

Jane Taylor, 1783, London — Essex, 1824 
Contented John 155 

Allan Cunningham, 1784, Dumfriesshire — London, 1842 
A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea 156 

Leigh Hunt, 1784, Middlesex — Surrey, 1859 

The Glove and the Lions 157 

Sneezing 158 

Abou Ben Adhem 158 

Jenny Kissed Me 159 

To the Grasshopper and the Cricket 159 



xii Table of Contents 

PAGE 

Barry Cornwall (Bryan Waller Procter), 1787, London — 
London, 1874 

The Bloodhorse 160 

George Gordon, Lord Byron, 1788, London — Missolonghi, 
Greece, 1824 

The Destruction of Sennacherib 151 

The Eve of Waterloo 162 

The Ocean 164 

She walks in beauty 166 

On Chillon 166 

Charles Wolfe, 1791, Kildare — Cork, 1823 
The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna 167 

Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792, Sussex— Spezia, Italy, 1822 

To a Skylark 168 

The Cloud 172 

Ozymandias 177 

Music, when Soft Voices Die 177 

Ode to the West Wind 178 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans, 1793, Liverpool— Dublin, 1835 
Casablanca 181 

John Keats, 1795, London — Rome, 182 1 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 182 

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer 183 

On the Grasshopper and Cricket 184 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 184 

Hartley Coleridge, 1796, Somerset — Westmorelatid, 1849 
She is not Fair to Outward View 186 

William Motherwell, 1797, Glasgow — Glasgow, 1835 
The Cavalier's Song 186 



Table of Contents xiii 

PAGE 

Samuel Lover, 1797, Dublin — Jersey, 1868 

Rory O'More 187 

The Low-backed Car 188 

Thomas Hood, 1799, London — London, 1845 

I Remember, I Remember 190 

Ruth 191 

No! 192 

To Minerva 192 

Elizabeth Turner, ? England — England, 1846 

Politeness 193 

WiLLLA.M Douglas (Dates and home unknown) 
Annie Laurie 193 

Thomas Babington Lord Macaulay, 1800, Leicestershire — Lon- 
don, 1859 
Ivry 194 

John Henry Cardinal Newman, 1801, London — Liverpool, 1890 
The Pillar of the Cloud 197 

Ell^.\beth Barrett Browning, 1809, Durham — Florence, 1861 
Three Sonnets 

1. I Thought how once Theocritus had sung 198 

2. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways 198 

3. If thou must love me, let it be for naught 199 

A Court Lady 199 

Lord Alfred Tennyson, 1809, Lincolnshire — Surrey, 1892 

Break, Break, Break 202 

Charge of the Light Brigade 203 

The splendor falls on castle walls 204 

Home they brought her warrior dead 205 

Sir Galahad 206 

Ulysses 208 

The Eagle 210 

The Higher Pantheism 210 



XIV 



Table of Contents 



PAGE 

Flower in the crannied wall 211 

The Brook's Song 211 

A Tribute to His Mother 213 

Ring Out Wild Bells 214 

Crossing the Bar 215 

William Makepeace Thackeray, 1811, Calcutta — London, 1863 

Little Billee 216 

Sorrows of Werther 217 

At the Church Gate 218 

The End of the Play 219 

Robert Browning, 181 2, London — Venice, 1889 

Incident of the French Camp 221 

How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix 223 

Herve Riel 225 

Pheidippides 230 

Cavalier Tunes 235 

My Last Duchess 237 

Tray 239 

Muleykeh 241 

The Year's at the spring 246 

Epilogue from Asolando 246 

Prospice 247 

Edward Lear, 181 2, London — San Retno, 1888 

The Jumblies 248 

The Owl and the Pussycat 250 

A Limerick 251 

Arthur Hugh Clough, 1819, Liverpool — Florence, 1861 

Say not the struggle naught availeth 251 

Qua Cursum Ventus 252 

Charles Kingsley, 1819, Devonshire — Hampshire, 1875 

Young and Old 253 

Frederick Locker-Lampson, 1821, Greenwich — Rowfant, 1895 

A Terrible Infant 254 



Table of Contents xv 

PAGE 

Matthew Arnold, 1822, Middlesex — Liverpool, 1888 

Shakspere 254 

Requiescat 255 

Self-Dependence 255 

Coventry Patmore, 1823, Warwickshire — Hampshire, 1896 
The Toys 256 

Thomas Edward Brown, 1830, /j/e of Man — Isle of Man, 1897 
My Garden ; 258 

Charles Stuart Calverley, 1831, Worcestershire — London, 1884 
The Alphabet 258 

Lewis Carroll (Charles L. Dodgson), 1832, Daresbury — 
Surrey, 1898 

Jabberwocky 259 

The (Jardenei's Song 260 

George du Maurier, 1834, Paris — London, 1896 
A Little Work 262 

Edward Bowen, 1836, Gloucestershire — Coted' Or, France, 1901 

Forty Years On 262 

Jack and Joe 264 

Austin Dobson, 1840, Plymouth — - 

The Cure's Progress 265 

Urceus Exit 266 

Charles George Gordon 267 

William Morris, 1834, London — London, 1896 
The Burghers' Battle 267 

William Ernest Henley, 1849, Gloucester — Surrey, 1903 

Home 269 

Invictus 270 



xvi Table of Contents 

PAGE 

Robert Louis Stevenson, 1850, Edinburgh — Samoa, 1894 

A Lad that is Gone 271 

The Vagabond 272 

Heather Ale 273 

Requiem 276 

William Watson, 1858, Yorkshire — 
The Keyboard 276 

Henry Charles Beeching, 1859, London — 
Going Down Hill on a Bicycle 277 

Henry Newbolt, 1862, Stafordshire — 

Drake's Drum 278 

Vital Lampada 279 

Clifton Chapel 280 

RuDYARD Kipling, 1865, Bombay — 

Fuzzy Wuzzy 281 

A Ballad of East and West , 283 

The Explorer 288 

Recessional 292 

L'Envoi 293 

John Masefield, Gloucestershire — ■ 

Cargoes 293 

An Old Song Resung 294 

Sea Fever 294 

Alfred Noyes, 1880, Stafordshire — 

A Song of Sherwood 295 

The Highwayman 297 

The Admiral's Ghost .■ . . . 301 

References, Technical and Historical 307 

Introductions and Notes 317 

Index of Poets, Titles, and First Lines 361 



BRITISH VERSE FOR BOYS 

GEOFFREY CHAUCER 

i34o(?), London-London, 1400 

FROM THE PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY 
TALES 

I. The Tabard Inn 

Whan that Aprille with his schowres swoote 

The drought of Marche hath perced to the roote, 

And bathed every veyne in swich hcour, 

Of which vertue engendred is the flour; 

Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breethe 

Enspired hath in every holte and heethe 

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne 

Hath in the Ram his halfe cours i-ronne, 

And smale fowles maken melodic, 

That slepen al the night with open eye, 

So priketh hem nature m her corages:— 

Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages, 

And palmers for to seeken straunge strondes, 

To feme halwes, kouthe in sondry londes; 

And specially, from every schires ende 

Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, 

The holy bUsful martir for to seeke, 

That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. 

Byfel that, in that sesoun on a day, 
In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, 
Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage 
To Caunterbury with ful devout corage, 



Geoffrey Chaucer 

At night was come into that hostelrye 

Wei nyne and twenty in a companye, 

Of sondry folk, by aventure i-falle 

In felaweschipe, and pUgryms were they alle, 

That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde; 

The chambres and the stables weren wyde, 

And wel we weren esed atte beste. 

And schortly, whan the sonne was to reste, 

So hadde I spoken with hem everychon, 

That I was of here felaweschipe anon, 

And made forward erly for to ryse, 

To take our wey ther as I yow devyse. 

But natheles, whil I have tyme and space, 

Or that I forther in this tale pace. 

Me thinketh it acordaunt to resoun. 

To telle yow al the condicioun 

Of eche of hem, so as it semede me, 

And whiche they weren, and of what degre; 

And eek in what array that they were inne; 

And at a knight than wol I first bygynne. 

II. The Knight 

A Knight ther was, and that a worthy man, 
That from the tyme that he first bigan 
To ryden out, he lovede chyvalrye, 
Trouthe and honour, fredom and curteisye. 
Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre, 
And therto hadde he riden, no man ferre. 
As wel in Christendom as in hethenesse, 
And ever honoured for his worthinesse. 
At Alisaundre he was whan it was wonne, 
Fvd ofte tyme he hadde the bord bygonne 
Aboven alle naciouns in Pruce. 
In Lettowe hadde he reysed and in Ruce, 
No Cristen man so ofte of his degre. 
In Gernade atte siege hadde he be 



The Canterbury Tales 

Of Algesir, and riden in Belmarie. 

At Lieys was he, and at Satalie, 

Whan they were wonne; and in the Create see 

At many a noble arive hadde he be. 

At mortal batailles hadde he ben fiftene, 

And foughten for our feith at Tramassene 

In lystes thries, and ay slayn his foo. 

This ilke worthy knight hadde ben also 

Sometyme with the lord of Palatye, 

Ageyn another he then in Turkye; 

And evermore he hadde a sovereyn prys. 

And though that he was worthy, he was wys, 

And of his port as meke as is a mayde. 

He nevere yit no vileinye ne sayde 

In al his lyf, unto no maner wight. 

He was a verray perfight gentil knight. 

But for to tellen you of his array. 

His hors was good, but he ne was nought gay. 

Of f ustyan he werede a gepoun 

Al bysmotered with his habergeoun. 

For he was late ycome from his viage, 

And wente for to doon his pilgrimage. 

III. The Squire 

With him ther was his sone, a young Squyer, 
A lovyere, and a lusty bacheler, 
With lokkes crulle as they were leyd in presse. 
Of twenty yeer of age he was, I gesse. 
Of his stature he was of even lengthe, 
And wonderly delyver, and gret of strengthe. 
And he hadde ben sometyme in chivachye, 
In Flaundres, in Artoys, and Picardye, 
And born him wel, as of so litel space, 
In hope to stonden in his lady grace. 
Embrowded was he, as it were a mede 
Al ful of fresshe floures, white and reede. 



Geoffrey Chaucer 

Syngynge he was, or floytynge, al the day; 

He was as fressh as is the moneth of May. 

Schort was his goune, with sleeves longe and wyde. 

Wei cowde he sitte on hors, and faire ryde. 

He cowde songes make and wel endite, 

Juste apid eek daunce, and wel purtreye and write. 

So hote he lovede, that by nightertale 

He sleep no more than doth a nightyngale. 

Curteys he was, lowly, and servysable, 

And carf byforn his fader at the table. 

IV. The Prioress 

Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, 
That of hire smylyng was ful symple and coy; 
Hire gretteste ooth ne was but by seynt Loy; 
And sche was cleped madame Eglentyne. 
Ful wel sche sang the servise divyne, 
En tuned in hire nose ful semely; 
And Frensch sche spak ful faire and fetysly. 
After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, 
For Frensch of Parys was to hire unknowe. 
At mete wel i- taught was sche withaUe; 
Sche leet no morsel from hire Uppes falle, 
Ne wette hire fyngres in hire sauce deepe. 
Wel cowde sche carie a morsel, and wel keepe. 
That no drope ne fille upon hire breste. 
In curteisie was set fid moche hire leste. 
Hire overlippe wypede sche so clene. 
That in hire cuppe was no ferthing sene 
Of greece, whan sche dronken hadde hire draughte. 
Ful semely after hire mete sche raughte, 
And sikerly sche was of gret disport, 
And ful pleasaunt, and amyable of port, 
And peynede hire to countrefete cheere 
Of court, and ben estatlich of manere. 
And to ben holden digne of reverence. 
But for to speken of hire conscience, 



The Canterbury Tales 

Sche was so charitable and so pitous, 
Sche wolde weepe if that sche sawe a mous 
Caught in a trappe, if it were deed or bledde. 
Of smale houndes hadde sche, but sche fedde 
With rested flessh, or mylk and wastel breed. 
But sore wepte sche if oon of hem were deed, 
Or if men smot it with a yerde smerte: 
And al was conscience and tendre herte. 
Ful semely hire wympel i-pynched was; 
Hire nose tretys; hire eyen greye as glas; 
Hire mouth ful smal, and therto softe and reed 
But sikerly sche hadde a fair forheed. 
It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe; 
For hardily sche was not undergrowe. 
Ful fetys was hire cloke, as I was waar. 
Of smal coral aboute hire arm sche baar 
A peire of bedes gauded al with grene; 
And theron heng a broch of gold ful schene, 
On which was first i-write a crowned A, 
And after. Amor vincit omnia. 
Another Nonne with hire hadde sche. 
That was hire chapeleyne, and Prestes thre. 

V. The Clerk 

A Clerk ther was of Oxenford also. 
That unto logik hadde longe i-go. 
As lene was his hors as is a rake, 
And he was not right fat, I undertake; 
But lokede holwe, and therto soberly. 
Ful thredbare was his overeste courtepy, 
For he hadde geten him yit no benefice, 
Ne was so worldly for to have ofiice. 
For him was levere have at his beddes heede 
Twenty bookes, clad in blak or reede. 
Of Aristotle and his philosophic. 
Then robes riche, or fithele, or gay sawtrie. 



Geoffrey Chaucer 

But al be that he was a philosophre, 
Yet hadde he but Htel gold in cofre; 
But al that he mighte of his frendes hente, 
On bookes and on lernyng he it spente, 
And busily gan for the soules preye 
Of hem that yaf him wherwith to scoleye, 
Of studie took he most cure and most heede. 
Not oo word spak he more than was neede, 
And that was seid in forme and reverence 
And schort and quyk, and ful of high sentence. 
Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche, 
And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. 

VI. The Parson 

A good man was ther of religioun, 
And was a poure Persoun of a toun; 
But riche he was of holy thought and werk. 
He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 
That Cristas gospel trewely wolde preche; 
His parisshens devoutly wolde he teche. 
Benigne he was, and wonder diligent. 
And in adversitee ful pacient; 
And swich he was y-proved ofte sythes. 
Ful looth were him to cursen for his tythes, 
But rather wolde he yeven, out of doute, 
Un-to his poure parisshens aboute 
Of his offring, and eek of his substaunce. 
He coude in litel thing han suffisaunce. 
Wyd was his parisshe, and houses fer a-sonder, 
But he ne lafte nat, for reyn ne thonder. 
In siknes nor in meschief to visyte 
The ferreste in his parisshe, moche and lyte, 
Upon his feet, and in his hond a staf. 
This noble ensample to his scheep he yaf, 
That first he wroughte, and afterward he taughte. 
Out of the gospel he tho wordes caughte, 



The Canterbury Tales 

And this figure he addede eek therto, 

That if gold ruste, what schal yren doo? 

For if a prest be foul, on whom we truste, 

No wonder is a lewed man to ruste; 

And schame it is, if that a prest tak keep, 

A filthy schepherde and a clene scheep; 

Wei oughte a prest ensample for to yive. 

By his clennesse, how that his scheep schulde lyve. 

He sette not his benefice to hyre, 

And leet his scheep encombred in the myre. 

And ran to Londone, unto seynte Poules, 

To seeken him a chaunterie for soules, 

Or with a bretherhede to ben withholde; 

But dwelte at hoom, and kepte wel his folde. 

So that the wolf ne made it not myscarye; 

He was a schepherd and no mercenarie. 

And though he holy were, and vertuous, 

He was to sinful man nought despitous, 

Ne of his speche daungerous ne digne, 

But in his teching discret and benigne. 

To drawe folk to heven by fairenesse; 

By good ensample, this was his busynesse; 

But it were eny persone obstinat. 

What so he were, of high or lowe estat. 

Him wolde he snybbe scharply for the nones. 

A better preest, I trowe, ther nowher non is. 

He waytede after no pompe and reverence, 

Ne makede him a spiced conscience, 

But Cristes lore, and his apostles twelve, 

He taughte, but first he folwede it himselve. 



Old Ballads 



OLD BALLADS 

SIR PATRICK SPENS 
I. The Sailing 

The King sits in Dunfermline toun, 
Drinking the blude-red wine: 

"O whaur wiU I get a skeely skipper 
To sail this gude ship of mine?" 

Then up an' spak an eldern knight, 
Sat at the King's right knee: 

" Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor 
That ever sailed the sea." 

The King has written a braid letter, 
And sealed it wi' his hand, 

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens 
Was walking on the strand. 

"To Noroway, to Noroway, 
To Noroway o'er the faem; 

The King's daughter o' Noroway, 
'Tis thou maun bring her hame!" 

The first line that Sir Patrick read, 

A loud laugh laughed he ; 
The neist line that Sir Patrick read, 

The tear blindit his e'e. 

"O wha is this has dune this deed, 
And tauld the King o' me. 

To send us out, at this time o' year, 
To sail upon the sea? 



Sir Patrick Spens 

"Be it wind or weet, be it haU, be it sleet, 

Our ship maun sail the faem; 
The King's daughter o' Noroway, 

'Tis we maun bring her hame." 

They hoysed their sails on Monday morn 

Wi' a' the speed they may; 
And they hae landed in Noroway 

Upon the Wodensday. 

II. The Return 

"Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a'! 

Our gude ship sails the morn." 
"Now, ever alack! my master dear, 

I fear a deadly storm! 

"I saw the new moon late yestreen, 

Wi' the auld moon in her arm; 
And I fear, I fear, ma master dear. 

That we sail come to harm!" 

They hadna sailed a league, a league, 

A league but barely three. 
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud. 

And gurly grew the sea. 

The ropes they brak, and the topmast lap. 

It was sic a deadly storm; 
And the waves cam owre the broken ship 

Till a' her sides were torn. 

"O whaur will I get a gude sailor 

To tak' the helm in hand, 
Until I win to the tall topmast 

And see if I can spy land?" 



lo Old Ballads 

"It's here am I, a sailor gude, 

To tak' the helm in hand, 
Till ye win up to the tall topmast, 

But I fear ye'U ne'er spy land." 

He hadna gane a step, a step, 

A step but barely ane, 
When a bolt flew out of the gude ship's side. 

And the saut sea it cam' in. 

"Gae fetch a web o' the silken claith, 

Anither o' the twine. 
And wap them into the gude ship's side 

And let na the sea come in." 

They fetched a web o' the silken claith, 

Anither o' the twine, 
And they wapped them into that gude ship's side, 

But aye the sea cam' in. 

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lairds 

To weet their cork-heeled shoon! 
But lang ere a' the play was played. 

They wat their hats aboon. 

And mony was the feather-bed 
That flattered on the faem; 
• And mony was the gude lord's son 
That never mair cam hame. 

O lang, lang, may the ladies sit, 

Wi' their fans into their hand, 
Or ever they see Sir Patrick Spens 

Come saihng to the strand! 

And lang, lang may the maidens sit, 
Wi' their gowd kaims in their hair, 

A-waiting for their ain dear loves. 
For them they'U see nae mair. 



Chevy-Chase ii 

O, forty miles off Aberdour, 

'Tis fifty fathoms deep, 
And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens 

Wi' the Scots lairds at his feet. 



CHEVY-CHASE 

God prosper long our noble king, 

Our lives and safeties all; 
A woful hunting once there did 

In Chevy-Chase befall. 

To drive the deer with hound and horn 

Earl Percy took his way; 
The child may rue that is unborn 

The hunting of that day. 

The stout Earl of Northumberland 

A vow to God did make. 
His pleasure in the Scottish woods 

Three summer days to take; 

The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chase 

To kill and bear away. 
These tidings to Earl Douglas came, 

In Scotland where he lay; 

Who sent Earl Percy present word 
He would prevent his sport. 

The English earl, not fearing that. 
Did to the woods resort. 

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, 

All chosen men of might. 
Who knew full well in time of need 

To aim their shafts aright. 



12 Old Ballads 

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran 

To chase the fallow deer; 
On Monday they began to hunt, 

When dayUght did appear; 

And long before high noon they had 

A hundred fat bucks slain; 
Then, having dined, the drovers went 

To rouse the deer again. 

The boAvmen mustered on the hills. 

Well able to endure; 
And all their rear, with special care, 

That day was guarded sure. 

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods 

The nimble deer to take. 
That with their cries the hills and dales 

An echo shrill did make. 

Lord Percy to the quarry went, 
To view the slaughtered deer; 

Quoth he, "Earl Douglas promised 
This day to meet me here; 

"But if I thought he would not come. 

No longer would I stay;" 
With that, a brave young gentleman 

Thus to the earl did say: — 

"Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, — 

His men in armor bright; 
Full twenty hundred Scottish spears 

All marching in our sight; 

"All men of pleasant Teviotdale, 

Fast by the river Tweed;" 
"Then cease your sports," Earl Percy said, 

"And take your bows with speed; 



Chevy-Chase 13 

"And now with me, my countrymen, 

Your courage forth advance; 
For never was there champion yet, 

In Scotland or in France, 

"That ever did on horseback come, 

But if my hap it were, 
I durst encounter man for man. 

With him to break a spear." 

Earl Douglas on his mUk-white steed, 

Most like a baron bold. 
Rode foremost of his company, 

Whose armor shone like gold. 

"Show me," said he, "whose men you be, 

That hunt so boldly here. 
That, without my consent, do chase 

And kill my fallow-deer." 

The first man that did answer make, 

Was noble Percy, he — 
Who said, "We list not to declare, 

Nor show whose men we be : 

"Yet will we spend our dearest blood 

Thy chiefest harts to slay." 
Then Douglas swore a solemn oath. 

And thus in rage did say: — 

"Ere thus I will out-braved be. 

One of us two shall die ; 
I know thee well, an earl thou art, — 

Lord Percy, so am I. 

"But trust me, Percy, pity it were, 

And great offense, to kill 
Any of these our guiltless men, 

For they have done no ill. 



14 Old Ballads 

"Let you and I the battle try, 

And set our men aside." 
"Accursed be he," Earl Percy said, 

"By whom this is denied." 

Then stepped a gallant squire forth, 
Witherington was his name. 

Who said, "I would not have it told 
To Henry, our king, for shame, 

"That e'er my captain fought on foot. 

And I stood looking on. 
You two be earls," said Witherington, 

"And I a squire alone; 

"I'll do the best that do I may, 
While I have power to stand ; 

While I have power to wield my sword, 
I'll fight with heart and hand." 

Our English archers bent their bows, — 
Their hearts were good and true; 

At the first flight of arrows sent. 
Full fourscore Scots they slew. 

Yet stays Earl Douglas on the bent, 
As chieftain stout and good; 

As valiant captain, aU unmoved, 
The shock he firmly stood. 

His host he parted had in three. 
As leader ware and tried; 

And soon his spearmen on their foes 
Bore down on every side. 

Throughout the English archery 
They dealt full many a wound; 

But stiU our valiant Englishmen 
All firmly kept their ground. 



Chcvy-Chase 15 

And throwing straight their bows away, 
They grasped their swords so bright; 

And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, 
On shields and helmets light. 

They closed fuU fast on every side, 

No slackness there was found; 
And many a gallant gentleman 

Lay gasping on the ground. 

In truth, it was a grief to see 

How each one chose his spear, 
And how the blood out of their breasts 

Did gush like water clear. 

At last these two stout earls did meet; 

Like captains of great might, 
Like lions wode, they laid on lode. 

And made a cruel fight. 

They fought until they both did sweat, 

With swords of tempered steel. 
Until the blood, like drops of rain. 

They trickling down did feel. 

"Yield thee. Lord Percy," Douglas said, 

"In faith I will thee bring 
Where thou shalt high advanced be 

By James, our Scottish king. 

"Thy ransom I will freely give. 

And this report of thee, — 
Thou art the most courageous knight 

That ever I did see. " 

"No, Douglas," saith Earl Percy then, 

"Thy proffer I do scorn; 
I will not yield to any Scot 

That ever yet was bom." 



i6 Old Ballads 

With that there came an arrow keen 

Out of an Enghsh bow, 
Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart,- 

A deep and deadly blow; 

Who never spake more words than these : 
"Fight on, my merry men all; 

For why, my life is at an end; 
Lord Percy sees my fall." 

Then leaving Hfe, Earl Percy took 
The dead man by the hand; 

And said, "Earl Douglas, for thy. life 
Would I had lost my hand. 

"In truth, my very heart doth bleed 

With sorrow for thy sake ; 
For sure a more redoubted knight 

Mischance did never take." 

A knight amongst the Scots there was 
Who saw Earl Douglas die, 

Who straight in wrath did vow revenge 
Upon the Earl Percy. 

Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he called. 
Who, with a spear full bright, 

Well-mounted on a gallant steed, 
Ran fiercely through the fight; 

And past the EngUsh archers all, 

Without a dread or fear; 
And through Earl Percy's body then 

He thrust his hateful spear. 

With such vehement force and might 

He did his body gore. 
The staff ran through the other side 

A large cloth-yard and more. 



Chevy-Chase 17 

So thus did both these nobles die, 

Whose courage none could stain. 
An English archer then perceived 

The noble earl was slain; 

He had a bow bent in his hand, 

Made of a trusty tree; 
An arrow of a cloth-yard long 

To the hard head drew he. 

Against Sir Hugh Mountgomery 

So right the shaft he set. 
The gray goose-wing that was thereon 

In his heart's blood was wet. 

This fight did last from break of day 

Till setting of the sun; 
For when they rung the evening-bell 

The battle scarce was done. 

With stout Earl Percy there were slain 

Sir John of Egerton, 
Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, 

Sir James, that bold baron. 

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, 

Both Knights of good account, 
Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, 

Whose prowess did surmount. 

For Witherington my heart is woe 

That ever he slain should be, 
For when his legs were hewn in two, 

He knelt and fought on his knee. 

And with Earl Douglas there were slain 

Sir Hugh Mountgomery, 
Sir Charles Murray, that from the field 

One foot would never flee; 



Old Ballads 

Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too, — 

His sister's son was he; 
Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed. 

But saved he could not be. 

And the Lord Maxwell in like case 

Did with Earl Douglas die: 
Of twenty hundred Scottish spears, 

Scarce fifty-five did fly. 

Of fifteen hundred EngUshmen, 

Went home but fifty-three; 
The rest in Chevy-Chase were slain, 

Under the greenwood tree. 

Next day did many widows come, 

Their husbands to bewail; 
They washed their wounds in brinish tears, 

But aU would not prevail. 

Their bodies, bathed in purple blood. 

They bore with them away; 
They kissed them dead a thousand times, 

Ere they were clad in clay. 

The news was brought to Edinburgh, 
Where Scotland's king did reign. 

That brave Earl Douglas suddenly 
Was with an arrow slain: 

"O heavy news," King James did say; 

" Scotland can witness be 
I have not any captain more 

Of such account as he." 

Like tidings to King Henry came 

Within as short a space. 
That Percy of Northumberland 

Was slain in Chevy-Chase : 



Lord Lovel 19 

"Now God be with him," said our King, 

"Since 'twill no better be; 
I trust I have within my realm 

Five hundred as good as he. 

"Yet shall not Scots or Scotland say 

But I will vengeance take; 
I'll be revenged on them all 

For brave Earl Percy's sake." 

This vow full well the king performed 

After at Humbledown; 
In one day fifty knights were slain 

With lords of high renown; 

And of the rest, of small account, 

Did many hundreds die: 
Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase, 

Made by the Earl Percy. 

God save the king, and bless this land, 

With plenty, joy, and peace; 
And grant, henceforth, that foul debate 

'Twixt noblemen may cease. 



LORD LOVEL 

Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate. 

Combing his milk-white steed; 
When up came Lady Nancy Belle, 

To wish her lover good speed. 

"Where are you going, Lord Lovel?" she said, 
"Oh! where are you going?" said she; 

"I'm going, my Lady Nancy Belle, 
Strange countries for to see." 



20 Old Ballads 

"When will you be back, Lord Lovel?" she said, 
"Oh! when will you come back?" said she; 

"In a year or t\vo— or three, at the most, 
I'll return to my fair Nancy." 

But he had not been gone a year and a day. 

Strange countries for to see. 
When languishing thoughts came into his head, 

Lady Nancy Belle he would go see. 

So he rode, and he rode on his milk-white steed. 

Till he came to London town. 
And there he heard St. Pancras' bells, 

And the people all mourning round. 

"Oh, what is the matter," Lord Lovel he said, 

"Oh! what is the matter?" said he; 
"A lord's lady is dead," a woman replied, 

"And some call her I^ady Nancy." 

So he ordered the grave to be opened wide. 

And the shroud he turned down, 
And there he kissed her clay-cold lips. 

Till the tears came trickling down. 

Lady Nancy she died as it might be to-day, 

Lord Lovel he died as to-morrow; 
Lady Nancy she died out of pure, pure grief, 

Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow. 

Lady Nancy was laid in St. Pancras' church, 

Lord Lovel was laid in the choir; 
And out of her bosom there grew a red rose, ■ 

And out of her lover's a brier. 

They giew, and they grew, to the church-steeple top, 
And then they could grow no higher: 

So there they entwined in a true-lover's knot. 
For all lovers true to admire. 



Barbara Allen's Cruelty 21 



BARBARA ALLEN'S CRUELTY 

In Scarlet town, where I was born, 
There was a fair maid dwelHn', 

Made every youth cry Well-a-way! 
Her name was Barbara Allen. 

All in the merry month of May, 

When green buds they were swellin', 

Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, 
For love of Barbara Allen. 

He sent his man in to her then, 
To the town where she was dwellin', 

"O haste and come to my master dear. 
If your name be Barbara Allen." 

So slowly, slowly rase she up, 
And slowly she came nigh him. 

And when she drew the curtain by — 
"Young man, I think you're dyin'." 

"0 it's I am sick and very very sick. 
And it's all for Barbara AUen." 

"O the better for me ye'se never be. 
Though your heart's blood were a-spillin'! 

"O dinna ye mind, young man," says she, 
"When the red wine ye were fillin', 

That ye made the healths go round and round. 
And slighted Barbara Allen? " 

He turned his face unto the wall, 
And death was with him dealin': 

"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all, 
And be kind to Barbara Allen! " 



22 Old Ballads 

As she was walking o'er the fields, 
She heard the dead-bell knellin'; 

And every jow the dead-beU gave 
Cried "Woe to Barbara Allen." 

"0 mother, mother, make my bed, 
make it saft and narrow: 

My love has died for me to-day, 
I'U die for him to-morrow. 

"Farewell," she said, "ye virgins all. 
And shun the fault I fell in: 

Henceforth take warning by the fall 
Of cruel Barbara Allen." 



THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON 

There was a youth, a well-beloved youth, 

And he was a squire's son, 
He loved the bailiff's daughter dear, 

That lived in Islington. 

Yet she was coy and would not believe 

That he did love her so. 
No, nor at any time would she 

Any countenance to him show. 

But when his friends did understand 

His fond and foolish mind, 
They sent him up to fair London 

An apprentice for to bind. 

And when he had been seven long years, 

And never his love could see: 
Many a tear have I shed for her sake, 

When she little thought of me. 



The Bailiff's Daughter of IsHngton 23 

Then all the maids of Islington 

Went forth to sport and play, 
All but the bailiff's daughter dear; 

She secretly stole away. 

She pulled off her gown of green, 

And put on ragged attire, 
And to fair London she would go 

Her true-love to enquire. 

As she went along the high road, 

The weather being hot and dry, 
She sat her down upon a green bank. 

And her true-love came riding by. 

She started up, with a color so red. 

Catching hold of his bridle-rein; 
One penny, one penny, kind sir, she said, 

Will ease me of much pain. 

Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, 

Pray tell me where you were born. 
At Islington, kind sir, said she, 

Where I have had many a scorn. 

I prithee, sweet-heart, then teU to me, 

O tell me, whether you know. 
The bailiff's daughter of IsUngton. 

She is dead, sir, long ago. 

If she be dead, then take my horse, 

My saddle and bridle also; 
For I will unto some far country. 

Where no man shall me know. 

O stay, O stay, thou goodly youth. 

She standeth by thy side; 
She is here, alive, she is not dead, 

And ready to be thy bride. 



24 Sir Edward Dyer 

farewell grief, and welcome joy, 
Ten thousand times therefor; 

For now I have found mine own true-love, 
Whom I thought I should never see more. 

■^ 

SIR EDWARD DYER 

i55o(?), Somersetshire-London, 1607 

MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS 

My mind to me a kingdom is; 

Such present joys therein I find. 
That it excels all other bliss 

That earth affords or grows by kind: 
Though much I want which most would have, 
Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 

No princely pomp, no wealthy store. 

No force to win the victory, 
No wily wit to salve a sore, 

No shape to feed a loving eye; 
To none of these I yield as thrall: 
For why? My mind doth serve for all. 

1 see how plenty surfeits oft, 
And hasty climbers soon do fall; 

I see that those which are aloft 

Mishap doth threaten most of all; 
They get with toil, they keep with fear: 
Such cares my mind could never bear. 

Content to live, this is my stay; 

I seek no more than may suffice; 
I press to bear no haughty sway; 

Look, what I lack my mind supplies: 
Lo, thus I triumph like a king, 
Content with that my mind doth bring. 



Two Sonnets 25 

Some have too much, yet stilJ do crave; 

I little have, and seek no more. 
They are but poor, though much they have, 

And I am rich with little store: 
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give; 
They lack, I leave; they pine, I live. 

I laugh not at another's loss; 

I grudge not at another's gain; 
No worldl)'^ waves my mind can toss; 

My state at one doth still remain: 
I fear no foe, I fawn no friend; 
I loathe not hfe, nor dread my end. 

Some weigh their pleasure by their lust. 

Their wisdom by their rage of will; 
Their treasure is their only trust; 

A cloaked craft their store of skill: 
But all the pleasure that I find 
Is to maintain a quiet mind. 

My wealth is health and perfect ease; 

My conscience clear my chief defense; 
I neither seek by bribes to please. 

Nor by deceit to breed offense: 
Thus do I live; thus will I die; 
Would all did so as well as I! 

EDMUND SPENSER 

1552, London-London, 1599 
TWO SONNETS 

Sweet is the Rose, but Grows upon a Brier 

Sweet is the rose, but grows upon a brier; 
Sweet is the juniper, but sharp his bough; 
Sweet is the eglantine, but pricketh near; 
Sweet is the fir-bloom, but his branches rough; 



26 Edmund Spenser 

Sweet is the cypress, but his rind is tough; 

Sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill; 

Sweet is the broom-flower, but yet sour enough; 

And sweet is moly, but his root is ill: 

So every sweet with sour is tempered still. 

That maketh it be coveted the more; 

For easy things, that may be got at will. 

Most sorts of men do set but little store. 
Why then should I account of little pain, 
That endless pleasure shall unto me gain? 

One Day I Wrote Her Name upon the Strand 

One day I wrote her name upon the strand, 
But came the waves and washed it away: 
Again I wrote it with a second hand, 
But came the tide and made my pains his prey. 
"Vain man," said she, "that dost in vain essay 
A mortal thing so to immortalize; 
For I myself shall like to this decay, 
And eke my name be wiped out likewise." 
"Not so," quoth I; "let baser things devise 
To die in dust, but you shall live by fame; 
My verse your virtues rare shall eternize. 
And in the heavens write your glorious name: 
Where, whenas Death shall all the world subdue. 
Our love shall live, and later life renew." 

HOPE DEFERRED 

Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried. 
What hell it is in suing long to bide; 
To lose good days, that might be better spent. 
To waste long nights in pensive discontent; 
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow. 
To feed on hope, to pine with fear and sorrow; 
To have thy Prince's grace, yet want her peers'. 
To have thy asking, yet wait many years; 



A Selection from the Faerie Queene 27 

To fret thy soiil with crosses and with cares, 
To eat thy heart through comfortless despairs; 
To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run. 
To spend, to give, to want, to be undone. 

A SELECTION FROM THE FAERIE QUEENE 

Entorst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, 
A shadie grove not farr away they spide. 
That promist ayde the tempest to withstand; 
Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers pride. 
Did spred so broad, that heavens Hght did hide. 
Not perceable with power of any starr; 
And all within were pathes and alleles wide. 
With footing worne, and leading inward farr. 
Faire harbour that them seems, so in they entred ar. 

And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward led 
Joying to heare the birdes sweete harmony. 
Which, therein shrouded from the tempest dred, 
Seemd in their song to scorne the cruell sky. 
Much can they praise the trees so straight and hy, 
The sayling Pine; the Cedar proud and tall; 
The vine-propp Elme; the Poplar never dry; 
The builder Oake, sole king of forests all; 
The Aspine good for staves; the Cypresse funerall; 

The Laurell, meed of mightie Conquerours 
And Poets sage; the Firre that weepeth still; 
The Willow, worne of forlorne paramours; 
The Eugh, obedient to the benders will; 
The Birch for shaftes; the Sallow for the mill; 
The Mirrhe sweete-bleeding in the bitter wound; 
The warhke Beech; the Ash for nothing ill; 
The fruitful Olive; and the Platane round; 
The carver Holme; the Maple seeldom inward sound. 



28 John Lyly 

Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, 
Untill the blustring storme is overblowne; 
When, weening to returne whence they did stray, 
They cannot finde that path, which first was showne, 
But wandering too and fro in waies unknowne, 
Furthest-from end then when they neerest weene. 
That makes them doubt their wits be not their owne; 
So many pathes, so many turnings scene, 
That which of them to take in diverse doubt they been. 



JOHN LYLY 

i554(?), London-London, 1606 
CUPID AND CAMPASPE 

From " Alexander and Campaspe " 

Cupid and my Campaspe played 

At cards for kisses; Cupid paid: 

He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows, 

His mother's doves, and team of sparrows; 

Loses them too; then down he throws 

The coral of his lip, the rose 

Growing on's cheek (but none knows how) ; 

With these, the crystal of his brow, 

And then the dimple on his chin; 

All these did my Campaspe win: 

At last he set her both his eyes — 

She won, and Cupid blind did rise. 

O Love! has she done this to thee? 

What shall, alas! become of me? 



My True-Lovc Hath My Heart 29 
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 

1554, Kent-Netherlands, 1586 

COME SLEEP! SLEEP, THE CERTAIN KNOT 
OF PEACE 

Come Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace, 
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release. 
The indifferent judge between the high and low! 
With shield of proof, shield me from out the press 
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: 

make in me those civil wars to cease! 

1 will good tribute pay if thou do so. 

Take thou of me, smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 

A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, 

A rosy garland, and a weary head: 

And if these things, as being thine in right, 

Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me. 

Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 

MY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART 

From the " Arcadia " 

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, 

By just exchange one for the other given: 
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; 

There never was a better bargain driven: 
His heart in me keeps him and me in one, 

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: 
He loves my heart, for once it was his own, 

I cherish his, because in me it bides. 



30 Michael Drayton 

His heart his wound received from my sight; 

My heart was wounded from his wounded heart; 
For as from me, on him his hurt did hght, 

So still me thought in me his heart did smart : 
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss, 
My true love hath my heart, and I have his. 



MICHAEL DRAYTON 

1563, Warwick-London, 163 1 

SINCE THERE'S NO HELP, COME LET US 
KISS AND PART 

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part, — 

Nay I have done, you get no more of me; 

And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart. 

That thus so cleanly I myself can free; 

Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows, 

And when we meet at any time again. 

Be it not seen in either of our brows 

That we one jot of former love retain. 

Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, 

When, his pulse faiUng, Passion speechless lies. 

When Faith is kneehng by his bed of death, 

And Innocence is closing up his eyes, 

Now, if thou would'st, when all have given him over, 
From death to life thou might'st him yet recover! 

AGINCOURT 

OCTOBER 25, 141 S 

Fair stood the wind for France 
When we our sails advance, 
Nor now to prove our chance 
Longer will tarry; 



Agincourt 31 

But putting to the main, 
At Caux, the mouth of Seine, 
With all his martial train 
Landed King Harry. 

And taking many a fort, 
Furnished in warHke sort, 
Marcheth towards Agincourt 

In happy hour; 
Skirmishing day by day 
With those that stopped his way, 
Where the French general lay 

With all his power. 

Which, in his height of pride, 
King Henry to deride, 
His ransom to provide 

Unto him sending; 
Which he neglects the while 
As from a nation vile. 
Yet with an angry smile 

Their fall portending. 

And turning to his men, 
Quoth our brave Henry then, 
"Though they to one be ten 

Be not amazed: 
Yet have we well begun: 
Battles so bravely won 
Have ever to the sun 

By fame been raised. 

"And for myself (quoth he) 
This my full rest shall be: 
England ne'er mourn for me 
Nor more esteem me: 



32 Michael Drayton 

Victor I will remain 
Or on this earth lie slain, 
Never shall she sustain 
Loss to redeem me. 

"Poitiers and Cressy tell, 
When most their pride did swell, 
Under our swords they fell: 

No less our skill is 
Than when our grandsire great 
Claiming the regal seat, 
By many a warlike feat 

Lopped the French hUes." 

The Duke of York so dread 
The eager vanguard led; 
With the main Henry sped 

Among his henchmen. 
Excester had the rear, 
A braver man not there; 
O Lord, how hot they were 

On the false Frenchmen! 

They now to fight are gone. 
Armor on armor shone, 
Drum now to drum did groan. 

To hear was wonder; 
That with the cries they make 
The very earth did shake : 
Trumpet to trumpet spake, 

Thunder to thunder. 

Well it thine age became, 
O noble Erpingham, 
Which didst the signal aim 
To our hid forces ! 



Agincourt 33 

When from a meadow by, 
Like a storm suddenly 
The English archery 

Struck the French horses. 



With Spanish yew so strong, 
Arrows a cloth-yard long 
That like to serpents stung, 

Piercing the weather; 
None from his feUow starts, 
But playing manly parts, 
And like true English hearts 

Stuck close together. 

When down their bows they threw, 
And forth their bilbos drew, 
And on the French they flew, 

Not one was tardy; 
Arms were from shoulders sent, 
Scalps to the teeth were rent, 
Down the French peasants went— 

Our men were hardy. 

This while our noble king, 
His broadsword brandishing, 
Down the French host did ding 

As to o'erwhelm it; 
And many a deep wound lent, 
His arms with blood besprent, 
And many a cruel dent 

Bruised his helmet. 

Gloster, that duke so good. 
Next of the royal blood. 
For famous England stood 
With his brave brother; 



34 Christopher Marlowe 

Clarence, in steel so bright, 
Though but a maiden knight. 
Yet in that furious fight 
Scarce such another. 

Warwick in blood did wade, 
Oxford the foe invade, 
And cruel slaughter made 

Still as they ran up; 
Suffolk his axe did ply, 
Beaumont and Willoughby 
Bare them right doughtily, 

Ferrers and Fanhope. 

Upon Saint Crispin's Day 
Fought was this noble fray. 
Which fame did not delay 

To England to carry. 
O when shall English men 
With such acts fill a pen? 
Or England breed again 

Such a King Harry? 



CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 

1564, Canterbury-London, 1593 

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE 

Come live with me and be my Love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove 
That hills and valleys, dales and fields, 
Or woods or steepy mountain jdelds. 

And we will sit upon the rocks. 

And see the shepherds feed their flocks 



Tamburlaine to Calyphas 35 

By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

And I will make thee beds of roses 
And a thousand fragrant posies; 
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. 

A gown made of the finest wool 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull; 
Fair-lined shppers for the cold, 
With buckles of the purest gold. 

A belt of straw and ivy-buds 
With coral clasps and amber studs: 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me and be my Love. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
For thy delight each May morning: 
If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me and be my Love. 



TAMBURLAINE TO CALYPHAS 

Thou shalt not have a foot unless thou bear 

A mind courageous and invincible: 

For he shall wear the crown of Persia 

Whose head hath deepest scars, whose breast most wounds, 

Which being wroth sends lightning from his eyes. 

And in the furrows of his frowning brows 

Harbours revenge, war, death, and cruelty. 



36 William Shakspere 

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 

1564, Stratford-ON-Avon-Stratford-on-Avon, 1616 
UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE 

From " As You Like It " 

Under the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat — 
Come hither, come hither, come hither! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun 
And loves to live i' the sun. 
Seeking the food he eats. 
And pleased with what he gets — 
Come hither, come hither, come hither! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND 

From " As You Like It " 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind. 
Thou art not so unkind 

As man's ingratitude ; 
Thy tooth is not so keen. 
Because thou art not seen. 

Although thy breath be rude. 



It Was a Lover and His Lass 37 

Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly; 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: 

Then, heigh-ho, the holly! 

This life is most jolly! 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 

Thou dost not bite so nigh 
As benefits forgot: 

Though thou the waters warp, 

Thy sting is not so sharp 

As friend remembered not. 
Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly; 
Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly : 

Then, heigh-ho, the holly! 

This life is most jolly! 

IT WAS A LOVER AND HIS LASS 

From " As You Like It " 

It was a lover and his lass, 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 
That o'er the green corn-field did pass, 

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, 
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; 
Sweet lovers love the spring. 

Between the acres of the rye, 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino. 

These pretty country folks would lie. 

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time. 

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; 

Sweet lovers love the spring. 

This carol they began that hour, 

With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino. 

How that life was but a flower 

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time. 

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; 

Sweet lovers love the spring. 



38 William Shakspere 

And, therefore, take the present time 
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, 

For love is crowned with the prime 

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, 

When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding; 

Sweet lovers love the spring. 



WHERE THE BEE SUCKS, THERE SUCK I 

From " The Tempest " 

Where the bee sucks, there suck I: 

In a cowslip's bell I lie; 

There I couch when owls do cry. 

On the bat's back I do fly 

After summer merrily. 
Merrily, merrily shall I live now 
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. 

A SEA DIRGE 

From '■ The Tempest " 

Full fathom five thy father lies; 

Of his bones are coral made; 
Those are pearls that were his eyes; 

Nothing of him that doth fade, 
But doth suff^er a sea-change 
Into something rich and strange; 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell. 
Hark! now I hear them, — ding-dong, bell. 

HARK, HARK, THE LARK 

From " Cymbeline " 

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings. 

And Phoebus 'gins arise. 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chaliced flowers that lies; 



Crabbed Age and Youth 39 

And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes: 
With everything that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet, arise : 
Arise, arise! 



SILVIA 

From " The Two Gentlemen of Verona " 

Who is Silvia? What is she? 

That all our swains commend her? 
Holy, fair, and wise is she; 

The heavens such grace did lend her, 
That she might admired be. 

Is she kind as she is fair? 

For beauty lives with kindness: 
Love doth to her eyes repair, 

To help him of his blindness; 
And, being helped, inhabits there. 

Then to Silvia let us sing. 

That Silvia is excelling; 
She excels each mortal thing 

Upon the dull earth dwelling: 
To her let us garlands bring. 

CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH 

From " The Passionate Pilgrim " 

Crabbed Age and Youth 
Cannot Uve together: 
Youth is fuU of pleasance. 
Age is full of care; 
Youth like summer morn. 
Age like winter weather; 
Youth hke summer brave. 
Age like winter bare. 



40 William Shakspere 

Youth is full of sport, 

Age's breath is short; 

Youth is nimble, Age is lame; 

Youth is hot and bold. 

Age is weak and cold ; 

Youth is wild, and Age is tame. 

Age, I do abhor thee; 

Youth, I do adore thee; 

O, my Love, my Love is young! 

Age, I do defy thee: 

O, sweet shepherd, hie thee! 

For methinks thou stay'st too long. 

FIVE SONNETS 

When in Disgrace with Fortune and Men's Eyes 

When, in disgrace wdth fortune and men's eyes, 
I all alone beweep my outcast state. 
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries. 
And look upon myself, and curse my fate. 
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope. 
Featured like Mm, like liim with friends possessed. 
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope. 
With what I most enjoy contented least ; 
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 
Haply I think on thee : and then my state, 
Like to the lark at break of day arising 
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate: 
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings 
That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 

When to the Sessions of Sweet Silent Thought 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 

I summon up remembrance of things past, 

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. 

And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste: 



Five Sonnets 41 

Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night. 
And weep afresh love's long-since cancelled woe, 
And moan the expense of many a vanished sight : 
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, 
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 
Which I new pay as if not paid before: 

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 

All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 

Full Many a Glorious Morning have I Seen 

Full many a glorious morning have I seen 
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye, 
Kissing with golden face the meadows green. 
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy; 
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride 
With ugly rack on his celestial face, 
And from the forlorn world his visage hide, 
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: 
Even so my sun one early morn did shine 
With all-triumphant splendor on my brow; 
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine, 
The region cloud hath masked him from me now. 

Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth ; 

Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth. 

When in the Chronicle of Wasted Time 

When in the chronicle of wasted time 
I see descriptions of the fairest wights. 
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, 
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, 
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 
I see their antique pen would have express'd 
Even such a beauty as you master now. 



42 William Shakspere 

So all their praises are but prophecies 

Of this our time, all you prefiguring; 

And, for they look'd but with divining eyes, 

They had not skill enough your worth to sing: 
For we, which now behold these present days. 
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. 



Poor Soul, the Centre of My Sinful Earth 

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 
Foil'd by these rebel powers that thee array. 
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, 
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? 
Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? 
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, 
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? 
Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss. 
And let that pine to aggravate thy store; 
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; 
Within be fed, without be rich no more: 

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men; 

And Death once dead, there's no more dying then. 



BEFORE HARFLEUR, 1415 

From " Henry V " 

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; 

Or close the wall up with our English dead! 

In peace, there's nothing so becomes a man, 

As modest stillness and humihty: 

But when the blast of war blows in our ears, 

Then imitate the action of the tiger; 

Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood. 

Disguise fair nature with hard-favor'd rage. 



To Celia 43 

Dishonor not your mothers: now attest, 

That those whom you called fathers did beget you: 

Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 

And teach them how to war! — and you good yeomen, 

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here 

The mettle of your pasture; let us swear 

That you are worth your breeding, which I doubt not, 

For there is none of you so mean and base, 

That hath not noble luster in your eyes. 

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, 

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot; 

Follow your spirit: and, upon this charge. 

Cry — God for Harry! England and Saint George! 



BEN JONSON 

1573, London-London, 1637 

TO CELIA 

Drink to me only with thine eyes. 

And I will pledge with mine; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 
Not so much honoring thee 

As giving it a hope that there 
It could not withered be; 



44 Ben Jonson 

But thou thereon didst only breathe, 
And sent'st it back to me; 

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, 
Not of itself but thee! 



THE NOBLE NATURE 

From " An Ode to Sir Lucius Gary and Sir H. Morison " 

It is not growing like a tree 

In bulk, doth make man better be; 
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, 
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: 
A lily of a day 
Is fairer far in May, 
Although it fall and die that night, — 
It was the plant and flower of Light. 
In small proportions we just beauties see. 
And in short measures life may perfect be. 



SIMPLEX MUNDITIIS 

From " Epicoene " 

Still to be neat, still to be dressed 

As you were going to a feast; 

Still to be powdered, still perfumed: 

Lady, it is to be presumed. 

Though art's hid causes are not found, 

All is not sweet, all is not sound. 

Give me a look, give me a face. 

That makes simplicity a grace; 

Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: 

Such sweet neglect more taketh me 

Than all the adulteries of art; 

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 



To William Shakspere 45 

TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER 
WILLIAM SHAKSPERE, AND WHAT HE 
HATH LEFT US 

1564-1616 

To draw no envy, Shakspere, on thy name, 

Am I thus ample to thy book and fame; 

While I confess thy writings to be such 

As neither Man nor Muse, can praise too much. 

'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways 

Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; 

For silliest ignorance on these may light, 

Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; 

Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance 

The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance; 

Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, 

And think to ruin, where it seemed to raise. 

These are, as some infamous bawd or whore 

Should praise a matron. What could hurt her more? 

But thou art proof against them, and, indeed, 

Above the ill fortune of them, or the need. 

I therefore will begin : Soul of the age ! 

The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage! 

My Shakspere, rise ! I will not lodge thee by 

Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 

A little further, to make thee room: 

Thou art a monument without a tomb, 

And art alive still while thy book doth live 

.■\nd we have wits to read and praise to give. 

That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses, 

I mean with great, but disproportioned Muses; 

For if I thought my judgment were of years, 

I should commit thee surely with thy peers. 

And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine. 

Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line. 

And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, 

From thence to honor thee, I would not seek 



46 Ben Jonson 

For names; but call forth thundering JLschylus, 

Euripides, and Sophocles to us; 

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, 

To life again, to hear thy buskin tread, 

And shake a stage; or when thy socks were on. 

Leave thee alone for the comparison 

Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome 

Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. 

Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show 

To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. 

He was not of an age, but for all time! 

And all the Muses still were in their prime, 

When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm 

Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm! 

Nature herself was proud of his designs 

And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines! 

Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit. 

As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit. 

The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes, 

Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please; 

But antiquated and deserted lie. 

As they were not of Nature's family. 

Yet must I not give Nature all; thy Art, 

My gentle Shakspere, must enjoy a part. 

For though the poet's matter nature be, 

His art doth give the fashion; and, that he 

Who casts to write a living line, must sweat, 

(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat 

Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same 

(And himself with it) that he thinks to frame, 

Or, for the laurel, he may gain a scorn; 

For a good poet's made, as well as bom. 

And such wert thou! Look how the father's face 

Lives in his issue, even so the race 

Of Shakspere's mind and manners brightly shines 

In his well-turned, and true-filed lines; 



Shall I, Wasting in Despair 47 

In each of which he seems to shake a lance, 

As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. 

Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were 

To see thee in our waters yet appear, 

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames, 

That so did take Eliza, and our James! 

But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere 

Advanced, and made a constellation there! 

Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage 

Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage. 

Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night, 

And despairs day, but for thy volume 's light. 

ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKSPERE PREFIXED 
TO THE FIRST FOLIO EDITION, 1623 

This figure, that thou here seest put. 
It was for gentle Shakspere cut; 
Wherein the Graver had a strife 
With Nature to outdo the life: 
O, could he but have drawn his wit 
As well in brass, as he hath hit 
His face; the Print would then surpass 
All that was ever writ in brass. 
But since he cannot, Reader, look 
Not at his picture, but his book. 

GEORGE WITHER 
1588, Hampshire-London, 1667 

SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR 

Shall I, wasting in despair, 
Die because a woman's fair? 
Or make pale my cheeks with care 
'Cause another's rosy are? 



48 George Wither 

Be she fairer than the day, 
Or the flowery meads in May, 
If she think not well of me, 
What care I how fair she be? 



Shall my silly heart be pined 
'Cause I see a woman kind? 
Or a well disposed nature 
Joined with a lovely feature? 
Be she meeker, kinder, than 
Turtle-dove or pelican, 
If she be not so to me, 
What care I how kind she be? 

Shall a woman's virtues move 
Me to perish for her love? 
Or her well-deservings known 
Make me quite forget my own? 
Be she with that goodness blest 
Which may merit name of Best, 
If she be not such to me. 
What care I how good she be? 

'Cause her fortune seems too high. 
Shall I play the fool and die? 
She that bears a noble mind. 
If not outward helps she find, 
Thinks what with them he would do 
That without them dares her woo; 
And unless that mind I see, 
What care I how great she be? 



Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
I will ne'er the more despair; 
If she love me, this believe, 
I will die ere she shall grieve; 



To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time 49 

If she slight me when I woo, 

I can scorn and let her go; 
For if she be not for me, 
What care I for whom she be? 



WILLIAM BROWNE 

1591, Devonshire-Devonshire, 1643 

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER 
OF PEMBROKE 

Underneath this sable hearse 
Lies the subject of all verse: 
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother: 
Death, ere thou hast slain another, 
Fair, and learned, and good as she, 
Time shaU throw a dart at thee. 



ROBERT HERRICK 

1591, London-Devonshire, 1674 

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME 

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. 

Old Time is stiU a-fl5dng: 
And this same flower that smiles to-day 

To-morrow will be dying. 

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, 

The higher he's a-getting. 
The sooner wUl his race be run, 

And nearer he's to setting, 



50 Robert Herrick 

That age is best which is the first, 
When youth and blood are warmer; 

But being spent, the worse, and worst 
Times still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time, 
And while ye may, go marry: 

For having lost but once your prime. 
You may for ever tarry. 



DELIGHT IN DISORDER 

A SWEET disorder in the dress 

Kindles in clothes a wantonness: 

A lawn about the shoulders thrown 

Into a fine distraction: 

An erring lace, which here and there 

Enthrals the crimson stomacher: 

A cuft' neglectful, and thereby 

Ribbons to flow confusedl}': 

A winning wave, deserving note. 

In the tempestuous petticoat: 

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie 

I see a wild civihty : 

Do more bewitch me than when art 

Is too precise in every part. 



WHENAS IN SILKS MY JULIA GOES 

Whenas in silks my Juha goes. 
Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows 
The liquefaction of her clothes! 
Next, when I cast mine eyes and see 
That brave vibration each way free, 
— O how that glittering taketh me! 



To Anthea 5 1 



TO DAFFODILS 

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 

You haste away so soon; 
As yet the early-rising sun 

Has not attained his noon. 
Stay, stay, 

Until the hasting day 
Has run 

But to the even-song; 
And, having prayed together, we 

Will go with you along. 

We have short time to stay as you, 

We have as short a spring; 
As quick a growth to meet decay, 

As you, or any thing. 
We die 

As your hours do, and dry 
Away, 

Like to the summer's rain; 
Or as the pearls of morning's dew. 

Ne'er to be found again. 



TO ANTHEA, WHO MAY COMMAND HIM 
ANYTHING 

Bid me to live, and I will live 

Thy Protestant to be; 
Or bid me love, and I will give 

A loving heart to thee. 

A heart as soft, a heart as kind. 

A heart as sound and free 
As in the whole world thou canst find, 

That heart I'll give to thee. 



52 Henry King 

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay 

To honor thy decree; 
Or bid it languish quite away, 

And 't shall do so for thee. 

•. Bid me to weep, and I will weep, 
While I have eyes to see; 
And having none, yet will I keep 
A heart to weep for thee. 

Bid me despair, and I'll despair, 
Under that cypress tree; 

Or bid me die, and I will dare 
E'en death, to die for thee. 

Thou art my life, my love, my heart, 

The very eyes of me; 
And hast command of every part. 

To live and die for thee. 



HENRY KING 

1592, Buckinghamshire-Susse.x', 1669 
LIKE TO THE FALLING OF A STAR 

Like to the falHng of a star, 
Or as the flights of eagles are, 
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, 
Or silver drops of morning dew. 
Or like a wind that chafes the flood. 
Or bubbles which on water stood: 
Even such is Man, whose borrowed light 
Is straight called in and paid to night. 
The wind blows out, the bubble dies, 
The spring entombed in autumn lies; 
The dew's dried up, the star is shot. 
The flight is past, — and man forgot. 



The Pulley 53 



GEORGE HERBERT 

1593, Wales-Wiltshire, 1633 
VIRTUE 

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright! 
The bridal of the earth and sky — 
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; 
For thou must die. 

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave 
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
Thy root is ever in its grave, 
And thou must die. 

Sweet spring, fuU of sweet days and roses, 
A box where sweets compacted lie. 
My music shows ye have your closes. 
And all must die. 

Only a sweet and virtuous soul. 
Like seasoned timber, never gives; 
But though the whole world turn to coal 
Then chiefly lives. 

THE PULLEY 

When God at first made Man, 
Having a glass of blessings standing by^ 
Let us, said He, pour on him all we can; 
Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie. 

Contract into a span. 

So strength first made a way, 
Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure: 
When almost all was out, God made a stay. 
Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure, 

Rest in the bottom lay. 



54 George Herbert 

For if I should, said He, 
Bestow this jewel also on My creature, 
He would adore My gifts instead of Me, 
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature: 

So both should losers be. 

Yet let him keep the rest, 
But keep them with repining restlessness; 
Let him be rich and weary, that at least. 
If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 

May toss him to My breast. 



THE BOSOM-SIN 

Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round! 
Parents first season us, then schoolmasters 
Deliver us to laws; they send us bound 
To rules of reason, holy messengers, 
Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin, 
Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes. 
Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in, 
Bibles laid open, miUions of surprises; 
Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness. 
The sound of Glory ringing in our ears : 
Without, our shame; within, our consciences; 
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears! 
Yet aU these fences, and their whole array. 
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away. 



THE ELIXIR 

Teach me, my God and King, 
In all things Thee to see, 

And what I do in anything 
To do it as for Thee : 



On a Cjirdle 55 

All may of Thee partake: 

Nothing can be so mean. 
Which with his tincture " for Thy sake," 

Will not grow bright and clean. 

A servant with this clause 

Makes drudgery divine; 
Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws, 

Makes that and th' action fine. 

This is the famous stone 

That turneth all to gold; 
For that which God doth touch and own 

Cannot for less be told. 



EDMUND WALLER 

1606, Hertfordshire-Beaconsfield, 1685 

ON A GIRDLE 

That which her slender waist confined 
Shall now my joyful temples bind; 
No monarch but would give his crown 
His arms might do what this has done. 

It was my Heaven's extremest sphere, 
The pale which held that lovely deer: 
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, 
Did all within this circle move. 

A narrow compass! and yet there 
Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair! 
Give me but what this ribbon bound, 
Take all the rest the sun goes round! 



56 John Milton 

JOHN MILTON 

1608, London-London, 1674 

FIVE SONNETS 
On His Having Arrived to the Age of Twenty-Three 

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, 
Stolen on his wing my three-and- twentieth year! 
My hasting days fly on with full career. 
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. 

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth 
That I to manhood am arrived so near; 
And inward ripeness doth much less appear, 
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. 

Yet, be it less or more, or soon or slow, 
It shall be still in strictest measure even 
To that same lot, however mean or high. 

Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven: 
All is, if I have grace to use it so, 
As ever in my great Task-master's eye. 

To THE Lord General Cromwell, May 16, 1652 

ON THE proposals OF CERTAIN MINISTERS OF THE COMMITTEE 
FOR THE PROPAGATION OF THE GOSPEL 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud 
Not of war only, but detractions rude, 
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude 
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, 

And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud 

Hast reared God's trophies, and His work pursued, 
While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued, 
And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, 



Five Sonnets 57 

And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much remains 
To conquer still; Peace hath her victories 
No less renowned than War; new foes arise, 

Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. 
Help us to save free conscience from the paw 
Of hireling wolves, whose Gospel is their maw. 



On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 

1655 

Avenge, Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones 
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; 
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, 
When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones. 

Forget not : in thy book record their groans 
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled 
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 

The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 

To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow 
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 

The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow 
A hundred-fold, who, having learnt thy way. 
Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 

On His Blindness 

When I consider how my light is spent 

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide. 

And that one talent which is death to hide 

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 

To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest He, returning, chide; 
" Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" 
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent 



58 John Milton 

That murmur, soon replies: " God doth not need 
Either man's work, or his own gifts. Who best 
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state 

Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed. 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest; 
They also serve who only stand and wait." 

To Cyriack Skinner 

Cyriack, this three years' day these eyes, though clear 

To outward view of blemish or of spot. 

Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot; 

Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear 
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, 

Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not 

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot 
Of heart or hope, but stUl bear up and steer 
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? 

The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied 

In Liberty's defence, my noble task, 
Of which all Europe rings from side to side. 

This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask 
Content, though blind, had I no better guide. 



AN EPITAPH ON THE ADMIRABLE DRAMATIC 
POET, W. SHAKSPERE 

What needs my Shakspere for his honored bones 

The labor of an age in piled stones? 

Or that his hallowed rehcs should be hid 

Under a star-ypointing pyramid? 

Dear son of memory, great heir of fame. 

What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? 

Thou in our wonder and astonishment 

Hast built thyself a livelong monument. 

For whilst, to the shame of slow-endeavoring art, 

Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart 



Why so Pale and Wan, Fond Lover? 59 

Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book 
Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, 
Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, 
Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; 
And so sepulchered in such pomp dost lie, 
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 



SIR JOHN SUCKLING 

1609, Middlesex-Paris, 1642 

WHY SO PALE AND WAN, FOND LOVER? 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 

Prithee, why so pale? 
Will, when looking well can't move her, 

Looking ill prevail? 

Prithee, why so pale? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 

Prithee, why so mute? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her. 

Saying nothing do't? 

Prithee, why so mute? 

Quit, quit, for shame, this will not move: 

This cannot take her. 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her: 

The devil take her I 



6o Richard Lovelace 

RICHARD LOVELACE 

1618, Kent-London, 1658 

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS 

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind. 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind 

To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new mistress now I chase, 

The first foe in the field; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As thou too shalt adore; 
I could not love thee, Dear, so much, 

Loved I not Honor more. 

TO ALTHEA, FROM PRISON 

When Love with unconfined wings 

Hovers within my gates. 
And my divine Althea brings 

To whisper at the grates; 
When I lie tangled in her hair 

And fettered to her eye. 
The birds that wanton in the air 

Know no such liberty. 

When flowing cups run swiftly round 

With no allaying Thames, 
Our careless heads with roses bound. 

Our hearts with loyal flames; 



Under the Portrait of Milton 6i 

When thirsty grief in wine we steep, 
When healths and draughts go free — 

Fishes that tipple in the deep 
Know no such Hberty. 

When, like committed linnets, I 

With shriller throat shaU sing 
The sweetness, mercy, majesty, 

And glories of my King; 
When I shall voice aloud how good 

He is, how great shovdd be. 
Enlarged winds, that curl the flood, 

Know no such liberty. 

Stone walls do not a prison make, 

Nor iron bars a cage; 
Minds innocent and quiet take 

That for an hermitage; 
If I have freedom in my love 

And in my soul am free, 
Angels alone, that soar above, 

Enjoy such liberty. 



JOHN DRYDEN 

1 63 1, Northamptonshire-London, 1700 

UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF MILTON IN THE 
4TH EDITION OF "PARADISE LOST," 1688 

Three poets in three distant ages born, 
Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn. 
The first in loftiness of thought surpassed; 
The next in majesty; in both the last. 
The force of Nature could no further go ; 
To make a third she joined the former two. 



62 John Dryden 



A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1687 

From harmony, from heavenly harmony. 
This universal frame began: 
When nature underneath a heap 
Of jarring atoms lay. 
And could not heave her head, 
The tuneful voice was heard from high, 

"Arise, ye more than dead!" 
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry. 
In order to their stations leap. 
And Music's power obey. 
From harmony, from heavenly harmony. 
This universal frame began: 
From harmony to harmony 
Through aU the compass of the notes it ran, 
The diapason closing full in Man. 

What passion cannot Music raise and quell? 
When Jubal struck the chorded shell. 
His listening brethren stood around, 
And, wondering, on their faces fell 
To worship that celestial sound: 
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell 
Within the hollow of that shell 
That spoke so sweetly and so well. 
What passion cannot Music raise and quell? 

The trumpet's loud clangor 

Excites us to arms. 
With shrill notes of anger. 
And mortal alarms. 
Thc'double double double beat 
Of the thundering drum 
Cries Hark! the foes come; 
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat! 



A Song for St. Cecilia's Udv 63 

The soft complaining flute, 
In dying notes, discovers 
The woes of hopeless lovers. 
Whose dirge is M'hispered by the warbling lute. 

Sharp violins proclaim 
Their jealous pangs and desperation, 
Fury, frantic indignation, 
Depth of pains, and height of passion. 

For the fair, disdainful dame. 

But O, what art can teach, 
What human voice can reach, 

The sacred organ's praise? 
Notes inspiring holy love, 
Notes that wing their heavenly ways 
To mend the choirs above. 

Orpheus could lead the savage race; 
And trees uprooted left their place, 
Sequacious of the lyre; 
But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher: 
When to her organ vocal breath was given, 
An angel heard, and straight appeared 
Mistaking Earth for Heaven. 

GRAND CHORUS 

As from the power of sacred lays 

The spheres began to move, 
And sung the great Creator's praise 

To all the Blest above; 
So when the last and dreadful hour 
This crumbhng pageant shall devour. 
The trumpet shall be heard on high. 
The dead shall live, the living die, 
And Music shall untune the sky! 



64 John Dry den 

ALEXANDER'S FEAST, OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC; 
AN ODE IN HONOR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY, 1697 



'TwAS at the royal feast for Persia won 

By Philip's warlike son. 

Aloft in awful state 

The godlike hero sate 

On his imperial throne; 

His valiant peers were placed around, 

Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound, 

(So should desert in arms be crowned) ; 

The lovely Thais by his side 

Sate like a blooming Eastern bride 

In flower of youth and beauty's pride. 

Happy, happy, happy pair! 

None but the brave 

None but the brave 

None but the brave deserves the fair! 

Chorus — Happy, happy, happy pair! 
None but the brave 
None but the brave 
None but the brave deserves the fair! 

II 
Timotheus, placed on high 
Amid the tuneful choir, 
With flying fingers touched the lyre: 
The trembling notes ascend the sky 
And heavenly joys inspire. 
The song began from Jove 
Who left his blissful seats above — 
Such is the power of mighty love! 
A dragon's fiery form belied the god; 
Sublime on radiant spires he rode 
When he to fair Olympia pressed, 
And while he sought her snowy breast. 



Alexander's Feast 65 

Then round her slender waist he curled, 

And stamped an "image of himself, a sovereign of the world. 

— The hstening crowd admire the lofty sound ! 

A present deity! they shout around: 

A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound : 

With ravished ears 

The monarch hears, 

Assumes the god, 

Affects to nod 

And seems to shake the spheres. 

Chorus — With ravished ears 
The monarch hears 
Assumes the god, 
Affects to nod 
And seems to shake the spheres. 

ni 

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung. 
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young: 
The jolly god in triumph comes! 
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums! 
flushed with a purple grace 
He shows his honest face: 

Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes! 
Bacchus, ever fair and young, 
Drinking joys did first ordain; 
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure. 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: 
Rich the treasure. 
Sweet the pleasure. 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 

Chorus — Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: 
Rich the treasure, 
Sweet the pleasure, 
Sweet is pleasure after pain. 



66 John Dryden 

IV 

Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain; 
Fought all his battles o'er again, 

And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain ! 
The master saw the madness rise, 
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; 
And, while he Heaven and Earth defied, 
Changed his hand and checked his pride. 
He chose a mournful Muse 
Soft pity to infuse: 
He sung Darius great and good, 
By too severe a fate 
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, 
Fallen from his high estate, 
And weltering in his blood ; 
Deserted at his utmost need 
By those his former bounty fed; 
On the bare earth exposed he lies 
With not a friend to close his eyes. 
— With downcast looks the joyless victor sate. 
Revolving, in his altered soul. 
The various turns of Chance below; 
And, now and then, a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 

Chorus — Revolving, in his altered soul, 

The various turns of Chance below; 
And, now atid then, a sigh he stole, 
And tears began to flow. 



The mighty master smiled to see 
That love was in the next degree; 
'Twas but a kindred-sound to move, 
For pity melts the mind to love. 
Softly sweet, in Lydian measures 
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 



Alexander's Feast 67 

War, he sung, is toil and trouble, 

Honor but an empty bubble; 

Never ending, still beginning, 

Fighting still, and still destrojdng; 

If the world be worth thy winning. 

Think, think it worth enjoying: 

Lovely Thais sits beside thee. 

Take the good the gods provide thee! 

— The many rend the skies with loud applause ; 

So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. 

The prince, unable to conceal his pain. 

Gazed on the fair 

Who caused his care, 

And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 

Sighed and looked, and sighed again: 

At length, wth love and wine at once oppressed, 

The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 

Chorus — The prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
Gazed on the fair 
Who caused his care. 

And sighed and looked, sighed and looked, 
Sighed and looked, and sighed again: 
At length, with love and wine at once oppressed, 
The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. 



Now strike the golden lyre again: 
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain! 
Break his bands of sleep asunder 
And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. 
Hark, hark! the horrid sound 
Has raised up his head: 
As awaked from the dead, 
And amazed he stares around. 
Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, 
See the Furies arise! 



68 John Dryden 

See the snakes that they rear 

How they hiss in their hair, 

And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! 

Behold a ghastly band, 

Each a torch in his hand! 

Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain 

And unburied remain 

Inglorious on the plain: 

Give the vengeance due 

To the valiant crew! 

Behold how they toss their torches on high, 

How they point to the Persian abodes 

And glittering temples of their hostile gods. 

— ^The princes applaud with a furious joy: 

And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 

Thais led the way 

To Ught him to his prey. 

And, like another Helen, fired another Troy! 

Chorus — And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; 
Thais led the way 
To light him to his prey, 
And, like another Helen, fired another Troy! 

VII 

— ^Thus, long ago, 
Ere heaving bellows learned to blow. 
While organs yet were mute, 
Timotheus, to his breathing flute 
And sounding lyre. 

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. 
At last divine Cecilia came, 
Inven tress of the vocal frame; 
The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds. 
And added length to solemn sounds. 
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 



A Reasonable Affliction 69 

— Let old Timotheus yield ihc prize 
Or both divide the crown; 
He raised a mortal to the skies; 
She drew an angel down ! 

Grand Chorus — At last divine Cecilia came, 
I liven tress of the vocal frame; 
The sweet enthiisiast from her sacred store 
Enlarged the former narrow bounds, 
And added length to solemn sounds, 
With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown 

before. 
— Let old Timotheus yield the prize 
Or both divide the crown; 
He raised a mortal to the skies; 
She drew an angel down! 

JOHN WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER 

1647, Oxfordshire-Oxfordshire, 1680 

EPITAPH ON CHARLES II 

Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King, 

Whose word no man relies on, 
Who never said a foolish thing, 

Nor ever did a wise one. 

MATTHEW PRIOR 

1664, East Dorset-Wimpole, 1721 

A REASONABLE AFFLICTION 

On his death-bed poor Lubin lies: 

His spouse is in despair; 
With frequent cries, and mutual sighs, 

They both express their care. 



yo Joseph Addison 

"A different cause," says Parson Sly, 
"The same effect may give: 
Poor Lubin fears that he may die; 
His wife, that he may live." 



THE REMEDY WORSE THAN THE DISEASE 

I SENT for Ratcliffe; was so ill, 
That other doctors gave me over: 

He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill. 
And I was likely to recover. 

But, when the wit began to wheeze, 
And wine had warmed the politician, 

Cured yesterday of my disease, 
I died last night of my physician. 



JOSEPH ADDISON 

1672, Wiltshire-London, 1719 

THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT ON HIGH 

The spacious iirmament on high, 

With all the blue ethereal sky, 

And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 

Their great Original proclaim. 

The unwearied sun, from day to day, 

Does his Creator's power display, 

And publishes to every land 

The work of an Almighty hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail. 
The Moon takes up the wondrous tale; 
And nightly to the listening Earth 
Repeats the story of her birth: 



The Sluggard 71 

Whilst all the stars that round her burn, 
And aU the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What tliough, in solemn silence, all 
Move round the dark terrestrial ball? 
What though nor real voice nor sound 
Amidst their radiant orbs be found? 
In Reason's ear they all rejoice. 
And utter forth a glorious voice; 
For ever singing as they shine, 
"The Hand that made us is divine." 

TO MIRA, ON HER INCOMPARABLE POEMS 

From the " Taller," No. 163 
I 

When dress'd in laurel wreaths you shine, 
And tune your soft melodious notes, 

You seem a Sister of the Nine, 
Or Phoebus' self in petticoats. 

II 
I fancy, when your song you sing 

(Your song you sing with so much art). 
Your pen was pluck'd from Cupid's wing; 

For, ah I it wounds me like his dart. 

ISAAC WATTS 

1674, Southampton-Hertfordshire, 1748 
THE SLUGGARD 

'Tis the voice of a sluggard; I heard him complain, 
"You have waked me too soon; I must slumber again"; 
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed 
Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head. 



72 Isaac Watts 

"A little more sleep, and a little more slumber"; 

Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number; 

And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands 

Or walks about saunt'ring, or trifling he stands. 

I passed by Jiis garden, and saw the wild brier 
The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher ; 
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags; 
And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs. 

I made him a visit, still hoping to find 
That he took better care for improving his mind; 
He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking, 
But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking. 

Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me; 
That man's but a picture of what I might be ; 
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, 
Who taught me betimes to love working and reading." 



HOW DOTH THE LITTLE BUSY BEE 

How doth the little busy bee 
Improve each shining hour. 

And gather honey all the day 
From every opening flower ! 

How skilfully she builds her cell! 

How neat she spreads the wax! 
And labors hard to store it well 

With the sweet food she makes. 

In works of labor or of skill, 

I would be busy too; 
For Satan finds some mischief still 

For idle hands to do. 



Our God, Our Help in Ages Past 73 

In books, or work, or healthful play, 

Let my first years be passed, 
That I may give for every day 

Some good account at last. 



OUR GOD, OUR HELP IN AGES PAST 

Our God, our Help in ages past. 
Our hope for years to comC; 

Our shelter from the stormy blast. 
And our eternal home! 

Under the shadow of Thy Throne 
Thy saints have dwelt secure; 

Sufficient is Thine arm alone, 
And our defense is sure. 

Before the hills in order stood. 
Or earth received her fame. 

From everlasting Thou art God, 
To endless years the same. 

A thousand ages in Thy sight 

Are like an evening gone; 
Short as the watch that ends the night 

Before the rising sun. 

The busy tribes of flesh and blood, 
With all their lives and cares, 

Are carried downwards by Thy flood. 
And lost in following years. 

Time, Uke an ever-rolling stream, 

Beairs all its sons away; 
They fly, forgotten, as a dream 

Dies at the opening day. 



74 John Gay 

Our God! our help in ages past, 
Our hope for years to come, 

Be Thou our guide when troubles last, 
And our eternal home ! 

JOHN GAY 

1685, Devonshire-London, 1732 

THE LION AND THE CUB 

How fond are men of rule and place, 

Who court it from the mean and base! 

These cannot bear an equal nigh. 

But from superior merit fly. 

They love the cellar's vulgar joke. 

And lose their hours in ale and smoke. 

There o'er some petty club preside; 

So poor, so paltry, is their pride! 

Nay, even with fools whole nights will sit, 

In hopes to be supreme in wit. 

If these can read, to these I write. 

To set their worth in truest light. 

A Lion-cub, of sordid mind. 

Avoided all the lion kind; 

Fond of applause, he sought the feasts 

Of vulgar and ignoble beasts; 

With asses all his time he spent, 

Their club's perpetual president. 

He caught their manners, looks, and airs; 

An ass in everything but ears! 

If e'er his Highness meant a joke. 

They grinned applause before h& spoke; 

But at each word what shouts of praise! 

"Good gods! how natural he brays!" 



Universal Prayer 75 

Elate with flattery and conceit, 
He seeks his royal sire's retreat; 
Forward, and fond to show his parts, 
His Highness brays; the Lion starts. 

"Puppy! that cursed vociferation 
Betrays thy life and conversation: 
Coxcombs, an ever -noisy race, 
Are trumpets of their own disgrace." 

"Why so severe?" the Cub repKes; 
"Our senate always held me wise!" 

"How weak is pride," returns the sire: 
"All fools are vain when fools admire! 
But know, what stupid asses prize, 
Lions and noble beasts despise." 



ALEXANDER POPE 

1688, London-Twickenham, 1744 
UNIVERSAL PRAYER 

DEO OPT. MAX. 

Father of all! in every age. 

In every clime adored. 
By saint, by savage, and by sage, 

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord! 

Thou Great First Cause, least understood. 

Who all my sense confined 
To know but this, that Thou art good, 

And that myself am blind; 

Yet gave me, in this dark estate, 

To see the good from ill ; 
And, binding nature fast in fate. 

Left free the human will. 



76 Alexander Pope 

What conscience dictates to be done, 

Or warns me not to do, 
This, teach me more than hell to shun, 

That, more than heaven pursue. 

..What blessings Thy free bounty gives 

Let me not cast away; 
For God is paid when man receives. 
To enjoy is to obey. 

Yet not to earth's contracted span 
Thy goodness let me bound, 

Or think Thee Lord alone of man, 
When thousand worlds are round: 

Let not this weak, unknowing hand 
Presume Thy bolts to throw 

And deal damnation round the land 
On each I judge Thy foe. 

If I am right. Thy grace impart 
Still in the right to stay; 

If I am wrong, O, teach my heart 
To find that better way! 

Save me alike from foolish pride 

And impious discontent 
At aught Thy wisdom has denied, 

Or aught Thy goodness lent. 

Teach me to feel another's woe, 

To hide the fault I see; 
That mercy I to others show, 

That mercy show to me. 

Mean though I am, not wholly so, 
Since quickened by Thy breath; 

0, lead me, whereso'er I go, 
Through this day's life or death! 



On a Certain Lady at Court "^y 

This day be bread and peace my lot; 

All else beneath the sun, 
Thou know'st if best bestowed or not, 

And let Thy will be done. 

To Thee, whose temple is all space, 

Whose altar earth, sea, skies, 
One chorus let all Being raise, • 

All Nature's incense rise! 



INSCRIBED ON THE COLLAR OF A DOG 

I AM his Highness' dog at Kew; 

Pray tell me, Sir, — whose dog are you? 



EPIGRAM 

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come; 
Knock as you please, there's nobody at home. 



ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT 

I KNOW a thing that's most uncommon; 

(Envy, be silent and attend!) 
I know a reasonable woman, 

Handsome and witty, yet a friend. 

Not warped by passion, awed by rumor; 

Not grave through pride, nor gay through folly; 
An equal mixture of good-humor 

And sensible soft melancholy. 

"Has she no faults then (Envy says), Sir?" 

Yes. she has one, I must aver: 
When all the world conspires to praise her, 

The woman's deaf, and does not hear. 



78 Alexander Pope 



TWO VIEWS OF ADDISON 

I 

From the "Epistle to Mr. Addison," 1715 

" Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, 
In action faithful, and in honour clear; 
Who broke no promise, served no private end, 
Who gained no title, and who lost no friend; 
Ennobled by himself, by all approved, 
And praised, unenvied, by the muse he loved." 

II 

From the "Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot," 1735 

Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires 
True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires; 
Blest with each talent and each art to please. 
And born to write, converse, and live with ease; 
Should such a man, too fond to rule aloiie, 
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, 
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes. 
And hate for arts that caused himself to rise ; 
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, 
And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; 
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike, 
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike; 
Alike reserved to blame, or to commend, 
A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend; 
Dreading e'en fools, by flatterers besieged, 
And so obliging that he ne'er obliged; 
Like Cato, give his little senate laws. 
And sit attentive to his own applause. 
While wits and Templars every sentence raise. 
And wonder with a foolish face of praise. 
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be? 
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he? 



Sally in Our Alley 79 

HENRY CAREY 

i7oo(?), London-London, 1743 

A MAIDEN'S IDEAL OF A HUSBAND 

Genteel in personage, 
Conduct, and equipage, 
Noble by heritage, 

Generous and free: 
Brave, not romantic; 
Learned, not pedantic; 
Frolic, not frantic; 

This must he be. 

Honor maintaining, 
Meanness disdaining, 
Still entertaining. 

Engaging and new. 
Neat, but not finical; 
Sage, but not cynical; 
Never tyrannical, 

But ever true. 

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY 

Of all the girls that are so smart 

There's none like pretty Sally; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 
There is no lady in the land 

Is half so sweet as Sally; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 



8o Henry Carey 

Her father he makes cabbage-nets, 

And through the streets does cry 'em; 
Her mother she sells laces long 

To such as please to buy 'em; 
But sure such folks could ne'er beget 

So sweet a girl as Sally! 
She is the darlmg of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

When she is by, I leave my work, 

I love her so sincerely; 
My master comes like any Turk, 

And bangs me most severely: 
But let him bang his bellyful, 

I'll bear it all for Sally; 
She is the darhng of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 

Of all the days that's in the week 

I dearly love but one day — 
And that's the day that comes betwixt 

A Saturday and Monday; 
For then I'm dressed all in my best 

To walk abroad with Sally; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 



My master carries me to church. 

And often am I blamed 
Because I leave him in the lurch 

As soon as text is named; 
I leave the church in sermon-time 

And slink away to Sally; 
She is the darling of my heart. 

And she lives in our alley. 



Rule, Britannia 

When Christmas comes about again, 

O, then I shall have money; 
I'll hoard it up, and box it all, 

I'll give it to my honey: 
I would it were ten thousand pound, 

I'd give it all to Sally; 
She is the darling of my heart, 

And she lives in our alley. 

My master and the neighbors all 

Make game of me and Sally, 
And, but for her, I'd better be 

A slave and row a gaUey; 
But when my seven long years are out, 

O, then I'U marry Sally; 
O, then we'll wed, and then we'U bed — 

But not, not in our alley! 



JAMES THOMSON 

1700, Scotland-Richmond, 1748 
RULE, BRITANNIA 

From " Alfred " 

When Britain first, at Heaven's command, 

Arose from out the azure main, 
This was the charter of the land, 
And guardian angels sung the strain: 
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Britons never will be slaves. 

The nations not so blest as thee 
Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall. 

Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free, 
The dread and envy of them all. 



82 Samuel Johnson 

Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 

More dreadful from each foreign stroke; 

As the loud blast that tears the skies 
Serves but to root thy native oak. 

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; 

All their attempts to bend thee down 
Will but arouse thy generous flame, 

But work their woe, and thy renown. 

To thee belongs the rural reign ; 

Thy cities shall with commerce shine; 
All thine shall be the subject main, 

And every shore it circles, thine. 

The Muses, still with Freedom found, 

Shall to thy happy coast repair: 
Blest Isle! with matchless beauty crowned, 
And manly hearts to guard the fair. 
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, 
Britons never will be slaves. 



SAMUEL JOHNSON 

1709, Staffordshire-London, 1784 

IF A MAN WHO TURNIPS CRIES 

If a man who turnips cries 
Cry not when his father dies, 
'Tis a proof that he would rather 
Have a turnip than a father. 



On the Death of Dr. Robert Levet 83 
ON THE DEATH OF DR. ROBERT LEVET 

A PRACTISER OF PHYSIC 

Condemned to Hope's delusive mine. 

As on we toil from day to day, 
By sudden blasts or slow decline, 

Our social comforts drop away. 

Well tried through many a varying year. 

See Levet to the grave descend, 
Officious, innocent, sincere, 

Of every friendless name the friend. 

Yet still he fills afifection's eye, 

Obscurely wise and coarsely kind. 
Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny 

Thy praise to merit unrefined. 

When fainting nature called for aid, 
And hovering death prepared the blow, 

His vigorous remedy displayed 
The power of art without the show. 

Li misery's darkest cavern known. 

His useful care was ever nigh. 
Where hopeless anguish poured his groan, 

And lonely want retired to die. 

No summons, mocked by chill delay. 

No petty gain disdained by pride; 
The modest wants of every day. 

The toil of every day supplied. 

His virtues walked their narrow round, 

Nor made a pause, nor left a void; 
And sure the Eternal Master found 

The single talent well employed. 



84 Thomas Gray 

The busy day, the peaceful night, 
Unfelt, uncounted, gUded by; 

His frame was firm, his powers were bright, 
Though now his eightieth year was nigh. 

■"Then, with no fiery, throbbing pain. 
No cold gradations of decay, 
Death broke at once the vital chain, 
And freed his soul the nearest way. 



THOMAS GRAY 

1 716, London-Cambridge, 1771 

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE CAT, DROWNED 
IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES 

'TwAS on a lofty vase's side, 
Where China's gayest art had dyed 

The azure flowers that blow; 
Demurest of the tabby kind. 
The pensive Selima, reclined, 

Gazed on the lake below. 

Her conscious tail her joy declared; 
The fair round face, the snowy beard, 

The velvet of her paws, 
Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, 
Her ears of jet and emerald eyes, 

She saw, and purred applause. 

Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide 
Two angel forms were seen to glide, 

The Genii of the stream: 
Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue 
Through richest purple to the view 

Betrayed a golden gleam. 



Elegy In a Country Churchyard 85 

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: 
A whisker first and then a claw, 

With many an ardent wish, 
She stretched, in vain, to reach the prize. 
What female heart can gold despise? 

What Cat's averse to fish? 

Presumptuous Maid ! with looks intent 
Again she stretched, again she bent. 

Nor knew the gulf between. 
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled.) 
The slippery verge her feet beguiled, 

She tumbled headlong in. 

Eight times emerging from the flood 
She mewed to every watery god. 

Some speedy aid to send. 
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred: 
Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard, — 

A Favorite has no friend! 

From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived. 
Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved, 

And be with caution bold. 
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes 
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; 

Nor all that glisters, gold. 

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 

The plowman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: 



86 Thomas Gray 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care: 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: 

How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, • 

Await alike the inevitable hour: 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 



Elegy in a Country Churchyard S,y 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; 

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: 

Fidl many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden that, with dauntless breast, 

The little tyrant of his fields withstood. 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 

The applause of Hstening senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 

And read their history in a nation's eyes. 

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 



Thomas Gray 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray; 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet e~ven these bones from insult to protect 

Some frail memorial stiU erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked. 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply: 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic morahst to die. 

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned. 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies. 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries. 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead. 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led. 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

"Th^re at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 



Elegy in a Country Churchyard 89 

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove, 

Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn. 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

"One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; 

Another came; nor yet beside the rill. 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: 

"The next, with dirges due in sad array, 

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 

Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:" 

THE EPITAPH 

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown. 

Fair S cie f we frowned not on his humble birth, 
A nd Melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 

Heaven did a recompense as largely seiid: 
He gave to Misery {all he had) a tear, 

He gained from Heaven {'twas all he wished) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

There they alike in trembling hope repose. 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



90 Oliver Goldsmith 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

1728, Ireland-London, 1774 
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG 

From " The Vicar of Wakefield " 

Good people all, of every sort, 

Give ear unto my song; 
And if you find it wondrous short, — 

It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man 
Of whom the world might say, 

That still a godly race he ran, — 
Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes: 
The naked every day he clad, — 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be. 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends; 

But when a pique began. 
The dog, to gain some private ends. 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets 

The wondering neighbors ran. 
And swore the dog had lost his wits. 

To bite so good a man. 



Boadicea: An Ode 91 

The wound it seemed bolh sore and sad 

To every Christian eye: 
And while they swore the dog was mad, 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 

That showed the rogues they lied, 
The man recovered of the bite, 

The dog it was that died. 



WILLIAM COWPER 

1 73 1, Hertfordshire-Norfolk, 1800 
BOADICEA: AN ODE 

62 A. D. 

When the British warrior queen, 
Bleeding from the Roman rods, 

Sought, with an indignant mien. 
Counsel of her country's gods. 

Sage beneath a spreading oak 
Sat the Druid, hoary chief. 

Every burning word he spoke 
Full of rage and full of grief: 

"Princess! if our aged eyes 

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 
'Tis because resentment ties 

All the terrors of our tongues. 

"Rome shall perish: — write that word 
In the blood that she has spilt; 

Perish, hopeless and abhorred. 
Deep in ruin as in guilt. 



92 William Cowper 

"Rome, for empire far renowned, 
Tramples on a thousand states; 

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground, — 
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates. 

"Other Romans shall arise 
Heedless of a soldier's name; 

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize. 
Harmony the path to fame. 

"Then the progeny that springs 
From the forests of our land. 

Armed with thunder, clad with wings, 
Shall a wider world command. 

"R.egions Caesar never knew 
Thy posterity shall sway; 

Where his eagles never flew, 
None invincible as they." 

Such the bard's prophetic words, 
Pregnant with celestial fire, 

Bending as he swept the chords 
Of his sweet but awful lyre. 

She, with all a monarch's pride. 
Felt them in her bosom glow. 

Rushed to battle, fought and died; 
Dying, hurled them at the foe. 

"RuflEians! pitiless as proud. 
Heaven awards the vengeance due; 

Empire is on us bestowed. 
Shame and ruin wait for you!" 



On the Loss of the "Royal George" 

ON THE LOSS OF THE "ROYAL GEORGE" 

August 29, 1782 

Toll for the brave! 

The brave that are no more! 
All sunk beneath the wave, 

Fast by their native shore! 

Eight hundred of the brave, 
Whose courage well was tried, 

Had made the vessel heel, 
And laid her on her side. 

A land-breeze shook the shrouds, 

And she was overset; 
Down went the "Royal George," 

With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave! 

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; 
His last sea-fight is fought, 

His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle; 

No tempest gave the shock; 
She sprang no fatal leak; 

She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in its sheath; 

His fingers held the pen, 
When Kempenfelt went down 

With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up, 

Once dreaded by our foes! 
And mingle with our cup 

The tear that England owes. 



93 



94 William Covvper 

Her timbers yet are sound, 
And she may float again, 

Full charged with England's thunder. 
And plough the distant main. 

"' But Kempenfelt is gone. 
His victories are o'er; 
And he and his eight hundred 
Shall plough the wave no more. 



EPITAPH ON A HARE 

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, 
Nor swifter greyhound follow, 

Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew. 
Nor ear heard huntsman's hallo; 

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, 
Who, nursed with tender care. 

And to domestic bounds confined. 
Was still a wild Jack-hare. 

Though duly from m}^ hand he took 

His pittance every night, 
He did it with a jealous look, 

And, when he could, would bite. 

His diet was of wheaten bread, 
And milk, and oats, and straw; 

Thistles, or lettuces instead. 
With sand to scour his maw. 

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled. 

On pippins' russet peel; 
And, when his juicy salads failed, 

Sliced carrot pleased him well. 



I'hc Diverting Histon- of John Cjilpin 95 

A Turkey carpet was his lawn, 

Whereon he loved to bound, 
To skip and gambol like a fawn, 

And swing his rump around. 

His frisking was at evening hours, 

For then he lost his fear; 
But most before approaching showers, 

Or when a storm drew near. 

Eight years and five round-rolling moons 

He thus saw steal away, 
Dozing out all his idle noons. 

And every night at play. 

I kept him for his humor's sake. 

For he would oft beguile 
My heart of thoughts that made it ache, 

And force me to a smile. 

But now, beneath this walnut-shade 

He finds his long, last home, 
And waits, in snug concealment laid. 

Till gentler Puss shall come. 

He, still more aged, feels the shocks 

From which no care can save, 
And, partner once of Tiney's box. 

Must soon partake his grave. 



THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN 

SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED AND 
CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN 

John Gilpin was a citizen 

Of credit and renown, 
A train-band captain eke was he 

Of famous London town. 



96 William Cowper 

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, . 

"Though wedded we have been 
These twice ten tedious years, yet we 

No hoHday have seen. 

"To-morrow is our wedding-day, 

And we will then repair 
Unto the Bell at Edmonton, 

All in a chaise and pair. ^ 

"My sister, and my sister's child, 

Myself, and children three, 
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride 

On horseback after we." 

He soon replied, "I do admire 

Of womankind but one, 
And you are she, my dearest dear, 

Therefore it shall be done. 

"I am a linen-draper bold, 
As all the world doth know, 

And my good friend the calender 
Will lend his horse to go." 

Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; 

And for that wine is dear, 
We will be furnished with our own, 

Which is both bright and clear." 

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife ; 

O'erjoyed was he to find. 
That though on pleasure she was bent, 

She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was brought, 

But yet was not allowed 
To drive up to the door, lest all 

Should say that she was proud. 



The Diverting History of John Gilpin 97 

So three doors off the chaise was stayed, 

Where they did all get in; 
Six precious souls, and all agog 

To dash through thick and thin. 

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, 

Were never folk so glad, 
The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at his horse's side 

Seized fast the flowing mane. 
And up he got, in haste to ride. 

But soon came down again; 

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he. 

His journey to begin, 
When, turning round his head, he saw 

Three customers come in. 

So down he came; for loss of time. 

Although it grieved him sore, 
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew. 

Would trouble him much more. 

'Twas long before the customers 

Were suited to their mind, 
When Betty screaming came downstairs. 

"The wine is left behind!" 

"Good lack!" quoth he— "yet bring it me, 

My leathern belt likewise. 
In which I bear my trusty sword. 

When I do exercise." 

Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) 

Had two stone bottles found, 
To hold the liquor that she loved. 

And keep it safe and sound. 



98 William Cowper 

Each bottle had a curling ear, 
Through which the belt he drew, 

And hung a bottle on each side. 
To make his balance true. 

"^hen over all, that he might be 

Equipped from top to toe. 
His long red cloak, well brushed and neat. 
He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 

Upon his nimble steed, 
Full slowl}^ pacing o'er the stones. 

With caution and good heed. 

But finding soon a smoother road 
Beneath his well-shod feet, 

The snorting beast began to trot, 
Which galled him in his seat. 

So, "Fair and softly," John he cried, 
But John he cried in vain; 

That trot became a gallop soon, 
In spite of curb and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must 

Who cannot sit upright. 
He grasped the mane with both his hands, 

And eke with all his might. 

His horse, who never in that sort 

Had handled been before. 
What thing upon his back had got 

Did wonder more and more. 

Away went Gilpin, neck or naught; 

Away went hat and wig: 
He little dreamt, when he set out. 

Of running such a rig. 



The Diverting History of John Gilpin 99 

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, 

Like streamer long and gay, 
Till, loop and button failing both, 

At last it flew away. 

Then might all people well discern 

The bottles he had slung; 
A bottle swinging at each side. 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children screamed. 

Up flew the windows all; 
And every soul cried out, "Well done!" 

As loud as he could bawl. 

Away went Gilpin— who but he? 

His fame soon spread around; 
"He carries weight!" "He rides a race!" 

" 'Tis for a thousand pound!" 

And still, as fast as he drew near, 

'Twas wonderful to view. 
How in a trice the turnpike-men 

Their gates wide open threw. 

And now, as he went bowing down 

His reeking head full low. 
The bottles twain behind his back 

Were shattered at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road. 

Most piteous to be seen. 
Which made his horse's flanks to smoke 

As they had basted been. 

But still he seemed to carry weight, 

With leathern girdle braced; 
For all might see the bottle-necks 

Still dangUng at his waist. 



lOO William Cowper 

Thus all through merry Islington 

These gambols he did play, 
Until he came unto the Wash 

Of Edmonton so gay; 

And there he threw the Wash about 

On both sides of the way, 
Just like unto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton his loving wife 

From the balcony espied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 

To see how he did ride. 

"Stop, stop, John Gilpin! — Here's the house!" 

They all at once did cry; 
"The dinner waits, and we are tired;" — 

Said Gilpin— "So am I." 

But yet his horse was not a whit 

Inclined to tarry there! 
For whyP^his owner had a house 

Full ten miles off, at Ware, 

So like an arrow swift he flew. 

Shot by an archer strong; 
So did he fly — ^which brings me to 

The middle of my song. 

Away went Gilpin, out of breath, 

And sore against his will. 
Till at his friend the calender's 

His horse at last stood still. 

The calender, amazed to see 

His neighbor in such trim. 
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 

And thus accosted him: 



The Diverting History of John Gilpin loi 

"What news? what news? your tidings tell; 

Tell me you must and shall — 
Say why bareheaded you are come, 

Or why you come at all?" 

Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit 

And loved a timely joke; 
And thus unto the calender 

In merry guise he spoke: 

"I came because your horse would come, 

And, if I well forbode. 
My hat and wig will soon be here,— 

They are upon the road." 

The calender, right glad to find 

His friend in merry pin. 
Returned him not a single word 

But to the house went in; 

Whence straight he came with hat and wig; 

A wig that flowed behind, 
A hat not much the worse for wear. 

Each comely in its kind. 

He held them up, and in his turn 

Thus showed his ready wit, 
"My head is twice as big as yours, 

They therefore needs must fit. 

"But let me scrape the dirt away 

That hangs upon your face; 
And stop and eat, for well you may 

Be in a hungry case." 

Said John, "It is my wedding-day, 

And all the world would stare. 
If wife should dine at Edmonton, 

And I should dine at Ware." 



I02 William Cowper 

So turning to his horse, he said, 

"I am in haste to dine; 
'Twas for your pleasure you came here, 

You shall go back for mine." 

Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! 
"^ For which he paid full dear; 
For, while he spake, a braying ass 
Did sing most loud and clear; 

Whereat his horse did snort, as he 

Had heard a lion roar. 
And galloped off with all his might, 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 
Went Gilpin's hat and wig: 

He lost them sooner than at first; 
For why? — they were too big. 

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 
Her husband posting down 

Into the country far away. 
She pulled out half-a-crown ; 

And thus unto the youth she said 
That drove them to the Bell, 

"This shall be yours, when you bring back 
My husband safe and well." 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet 

John coming back amain: 
Whom in a trice he tried to stop. 

By catching at his rein; 

But not performing what he meant, 
And gladly would have done, 

The frighted steed he frighted more, 
And made him faster run. 



The Diverting History of John Gilpin 103 

Away went Gilpin, and away 

Went postboy at his heels, 
The postboy's horse right glad to miss 

The lumbering of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road, 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly. 
With postboy scampering in the rear, 

They raised the hue and cry: 

"Stop thief! stop thief! — a highwayman!" 

Not one of them was mute ; 
And all and each that passed that way 

Did join in the pursuit. 

And now the turnpike gates again 

Flew open in short space; 
The toll-men thinking, as before, 

That Gilpin rode a race. 

And so he did, and won it too, 

For he got first to town; 
Nor stopped till where he had got up 

He did again get down. 

Now let us sing, Long live the king! 

And Gilpin, long live he! 
And when he next doth ride abroad 

May I be there to see! 



I04 Thomas Holcroft 



THOMAS HOLCROFT 

1745, London-London, 1809 

GAFFER GRAY 

"Ho! why dost thou shiver and shake, 

Gaffer Gray, 
And why doth thy nose look so blue?" 
" "lis the weather that's cold, 
'Tis I'm grown very old, 
And my doublet is not very new% 
Well-a-day!" 

"Then line that warm doublet with ale, 

Gaffer Gray, 
And warm thy old heart with a glass." 
"Nay, but credit I've none, 
And my money's all gone; 
Then say how may that come to pass? 
WeU-a-day!" 

"Hie away to the house on the brow, 

Gaffer Gray, 
And knock at the jolly priest's door." 
"The priest often preaches 
Against worldly riches, 
But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, 
Well-a-day!" 

"The lawyer lives under the hill. 

Gaffer Gray, 
Warmly fenced both in back and in front." 
"He will fasten his locks. 
And will threaten the stocks. 
Should he evermore find me in want. 
Well-a-dav!" 



Tom Bowling 105 

"The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, 

Gaffer Gray, 
And the season will welcome you there." 
"His fat beeves and his beer, 
And his merry new year, 
Are all for the flush and the fair, 
Well-a-day!" 

"My keg is but low, I confess. 

Gaffer Gray, 
What then? While it lasts, man, we'll live." 
"The poor man alone, 
When he hears the poor moan. 
Of his morsel a morsel will give, 
Well-a-day." 



CHARLES DIBDIN 

1745, Southampton-London, 1814 

TOM BOWLING 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 

The darling of our crew; 
No more he'll hear the tempest howhng. 

For death has broached him to. 
His form was of the manliest beauty. 

His heart was kind and soft; 
Faithful, below, he did his duty; 

But now he's gone aloft. 

Tom never from his word departed, 

His virtues were so rare; 
His friends were many and true-hearted, 

His Poll was kind and fair: 



io6 Charles Dibdin 

And then he'd sing, so blithe and jolly, 

Ah, many 's the time and oft ! 
But mirth is turned to melancholy, 

For Tom is gone aloft. 

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather. 

When He, who all commands. 
Shall give, to call Life's crew together. 

The word to "pipe all hands." 
Thus Death, who Kings and Tars despatches. 

In vain Tom's life has doffed; 
For, though his body's under hatches. 

His soul is gone aloft. 

THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION 

One night came on a hurricane, 

The sea was mountains rolling, 
When Barney Buntline turned his quid, 

And said to BUly Bowling. 
"A strong nor'wester's blowing, Bill; 

Hark! don't ye hear it roar, now? 
Lord help 'em, how I pities them 

Unhapp}' folks on shore now! 

" Foolhardy chaps who live in towns. 

What danger they are all in. 
And now lie quaking in their beds, 

For fear the roof should fall in ; 
Poor creatures! how they envies us, 

And wishes, I've a notion, 
For our good luck, in such a storm. 

To be upon the ocean ! 

"And as for them who're out all day 
On business from their houses. 

And late at night are coming home, 
To cheer their babes and spouses, — 



The Lamb 107 

While you and I, Bill, on the deck 

Are comfortably lying, 
My eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots 

About their heads are flying! 

"And very often have we heard 

How men are killed and undone 
By overturns of carriages, 

By thieves, and fires in London; 
We know what risks all landsmen run, 

From noblemen to tailors; 
Then, Bill, let us thank Providence 

That you and I are sailors. 



RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN 

1751, Dublin-London, 1816 

"I WOULD," SAYS FOX, "A TAX DEVISE" 

"I WOULD," says Fox, "a tax devise 
That shall not fall on me." 
"Then tax receipts," Lord North replies, 
"For those you never see." 

WILLIAM BLAKE 

1757, London-London, 1827 
THE LAMB 

From " Songs of Innocence " 

Little Lamb, who made thee? 
Dost thou know who made thee, 
Gave thee life, and bade thee feed 
By the stream and o'er the mead; 



io8 William Blake 

Gave thee clothing of delight, 
Softest clothing, woolly, bright; 
Gave thee such a tender voice, 
Making all the vales rejoice? 
, . Little Lamb, who made thee? 

^>^ Dost thou know who made thee? 

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee, 
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee; 
He is called by thy name. 
For He calls Himself a Lamb. 
He is meek, and He is mild; 
He became a little child. 
I a child, and thou a lamb. 
We are called by His name. 

Little Lamb, God bless thee! 

Little Lamb, God bless thee. 



THE TIGER 

From " Songs of Experience " 

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright. 
In the forests of the night. 
What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 
On what wings dare he aspire? 
What the hand dare seize the fire? 

And what shoulder, and what art. 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
And when thy heart began to beat. 
What dread hand and what dread feet? 



A Red, Red Rose 109 

What the hammer? what the chain? 
In what furnace was thy brain? 
What the anvil? what dread grasp 
Dare its deadly terrors clasp? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 
And watered heaven with their tears, 
Did He smile His work to see? 
Did He who made the Lamb, make thee? 

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, 
In the forests of the night. 
What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 



ROBERT BURNS 

1759, AUoway-Dumfries, 1796 

A RED, RED ROSE 

O, MY luve's like a red, red rose 
That's newly sprung in June; 

O, my luve's like the melodie 
That's sweetly played in tunc. 

As fair thou art, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I ; 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun; 

I will luve thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o' life shall run. 



no Robert Burns 

And fare-thee-weel, my only luve! 

And fare-thee-weel a while! 
And I will come again, my luve, 

Though it were ten thousand mile. 

JEAN 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 

I dearly lo'e the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo'e best: 
There's wild woods grow, and rivers row. 

And monie a hill between; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair: 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings 

But minds me o' my Jean. 

BONNIE BOON 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Boon, 
How can ye bloom sae fair! 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae fu' o' care! 

Thou'U break my heart, thou bonnie bird 
That sings upon the bough; 

Thou minds me o' the happy days 
When my fause Luve was true. 



John Anderson 1 1 1 

Thou '11 break my heart, Ihou bonnie bird 

That sings beside thy mate; 
For sae I sat, and sac I sang, 

And wist na o' my fate. 

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon 

To see the woodbine twine, 
And ilka bird sang o' its love; 

And sae did I o' mine. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Frae aff its thorny tree; 
And my fause luver staw the rose, 

But left the thorn wi' me. 



JOHN ANDERSON 

John Anderson my jo, John, 
When we were first acquent 
Your locks were like the raven. 
Your bonnie brow was brent; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 
Your locks are like the snow; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither. 

And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi ane anither: 

Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go, 

And we'll sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



112 Robert Burns 

MARY MORISON 

Mary, at thy window be, 

It is the wished, the trysted hour! 
Those smiles and glances let me see, 

"■That make the miser's treasure poor: 
How blithely wad I bide the stour 

A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
Could I the rich reward secure, 

The lovely Mary Morison ! 

Yestreen, when to the trembling string 
The dance gaed through the lighted ha'. 

To thee my fancy took its wing, 
I sat, but neither heard nor saw: 

Though this was fair, and that was braw, 
And yon the toast of a' the town, 

1 sighed, and said amang them a', 
"Ye arena Mary Morison." 

Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wiltna gie, 

At least be pity to me shown; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 

HIGHLAND MARY 

Ye banks and braes and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers. 

Your waters never drumhc! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 



To a Mouse 113 

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasped her to my bosom! 
The golden hours on angel's wings 

Flew o'er me and my dearie; 
For dear to me as Ught and Ufe 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace 

Our parting was fu' tender; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder; 
But, O! fell Death's untimely frost, 

That nipped my flower sae early! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kissed sae fondly! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly; 
And moldering now in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly! 
But still mthin my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



TO A MOUSE 

ON TURNING UP HER NEST WITH THE PLOW, NOVEMBER, 1785 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie! 
Thou need na start awa' sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring pattle! 



114 Robert Burns 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion, 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, 
^ An' fellow-mortal! 

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; 
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! 
A daimen icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request; 
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, 

And never miss't! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin' ! 
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell an' keen! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin' fast. 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, — 
Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed 

Out through thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! 
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald. 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble. 

An' cranreuch cauld! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain: 



For a' That and a' That 115 

The best-laid schemes 0' mice an' men, 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An' lea'e us naught but grief an' pain, 

For promised joy ! 

Still thou are blest, compared wi' me! 
The present only toucheth thee: 
But, och! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear! 
An' forward, though I canna see. 

I guess an' fear! 



FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT 

Is there, for honest Poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a' that! 
The coward slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toil obscure, and a' that; 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The Man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine. 

Wear hodden gra>s and a' that; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A Man's a Man for a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their tinsel show, and a' that; 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor. 

Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; 

Though hundreds worship at his word, 
He's but a coof for a' that; 



Ii6 Robert Burns 

For a' that, and a' that, 

His ribbon, star, and a' that; 

The man o' independent mind, 
He looks and laughs at a' that. 

"A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith, he maunna fa' that! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that. 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may,^ 

As come it wiU for a' that, — 
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth. 

May bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's coming yet, for a' that, — 
That Man to Man, the warld o'er. 

Shall brothers be for a' that! 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; 
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, — 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birthplace of valor, the country of worth; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove. 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; 



Auld Lang Syne 117 

Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, 
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, — 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 



AULD LANG SYNE 
I 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
And never brought to mind? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And auld lang syne? 



And surely you'll be your pint-stoup, 

And surely I'll be mine, 
And we'U tak a cup o' kindness yet 

For auld lang syne. 

Ill 

We twa hae run about the braes, 
And pou'd the gowans fine, 

But we've wandered monie a weary fit 
Sin' auld lang syne. 

IV 

We twa hae paidl'd in the burn 

Frae morning sun till dine, 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd 

Sin' auld lang syne. 



Ii8 Robert Burns 



And there's a hand, my trusty fiere 

And gie's a hand o' thine, 
And we'll tak a right guid-wiUie waught 

For auld lang syne! 

CHORUS 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne. 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 

For auld lang syne! 



MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL 

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 

The wretch's destinie! 
Macpherson's time will not be long 

On yonder gallows tree. 

O what is death but parting breath? 

On many a bloody plain 
I've dared his face; and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ! 

Untie these bands from off my hands. 

And bring to me my sword, 
And there's no man in all Scotland, 

But I'll brave him at a word. 

I've lived a life of sturt and strife; 

I die by treacherie; 
It burns my heart I must depart 

And not avenged be. 



Bruce to His Army 119 

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky! 
May coward shame distain his name, 

The wretch that dare not die. 

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he; 
He played a spring, and danced it round. 

Below the gallows-tree. 



BRUCE TO HIS ARMY AT BANNOCKBURN 

Scots, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has often led; 
Welcome to your gory bed. 
Or to victory! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour, 
See the front of battle lour; 
See approach proud Edward's power, 
Chains and slavery! 

Wha will be a traitor-knave? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave? 
Wha sae base as be a slave? 
Let him turn and flee! 

Wha, for Scotland's king and law. 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand or freeman fa', 
Let him follow me! 

By oppression's woes and pains 

By your sons in servile chains! 

We will drain our dearest veins, 

But they shall be free! 



I20 Lady Carolina Nairne 

Lay the proud usurper low! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow, 
Let us do, or die! 

LADY CAROLINA NAIRNE 

1766, Perthshire-Perthshire, 1845 

THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN 

The Laird o' Cockpen, he's proud and he's great; 
His mind is ta'en up wi' things o' the State; 
He wanted a wife, his braw house to keep; 
But favor wi' wooin' was fashous to seek. 

Doun by the dyke-side a lady did dwell. 
At his table-head he thought she'd look well, — 
M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee. 
A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. 

His wig was well-pouthered, as guid as when new. 
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; 
He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat, — 
And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that! 

He took the gray mare, and rade cannily, 
And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee; 
"Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben, — 
She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen." 

Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower wine. 
"And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?" 
She put aff her apron, and on her silk goun, 
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' doun. 



The Boy and the Wolf 121 

And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low; 
And what was his errand he soon let her know. 
Amazed was the Laird when the lady said, "Na," 
And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'. 

Dumfoundered he was, but nae sigh did he gi'e; 
He mounted his mare, and rade cannily; 
And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen, 
"She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen!" 

JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE 

1769, London-Malta, 1846 

THE BOY AND THE WOLF 

A LITTLE Boy w^as set to keep 

A httle flock of goats or sheep; 

He thought the task too sohtary. 

And took a strange perverse vagary : 

To call the people out of fun. 

To see them leave their work and run, 

He cried and screamed with all his might, — 

"Wolf! wolf!" in a pretended fright. 

Some people, working at a distance, 

Came running in to his assistance. 

They searched the fields and bushes round. 

The Wolf was nowhere to be found. 

The Boy, delighted with his game, 

A few days after did the same, 

And once again the people came. 

The trick was many times repeated, 

At last they found that they were cheated. 

One day the Wolf appeared in sight. 

The Boy was in a real fright, 

He cried, "Wolf! wolf!" — the neighbors heard, 

But not a single creature stirred. 



122 William Wordsworth 

"We need not go from our employ, — 
'Tis nothing bvit that idle boy." 
The little Boy cried out again, 
"Help, help! the Wolf!" he cried in vain. 
. . At last his master came to beat him. 
Ke came too late, the Wolf had eat him. 

This shows the bad effect of lying, 

And hkewise of continual crying. 

If I had heard you scream and roar, 

For nothing, twenty times before, 

Although you might have broke your arm, 

Or met with any serious harm, 

Your cries could give me no alarm; 

They would not make me move the faster. 

Nor apprehend the least disaster; 

I should be sorry when I came, 

But you yourself would be to blame. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

1770, Cumberland- Westmoreland, 1850 

THE SOLITARY REAPER 

Behold her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lass! 
Reaping and singing by herself; 
Stop here, or gently pass! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain. 
And sings a melancholy strain; 
O listen! for the vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No nightingale did ever chaunt 
More welcome notes to weary bands 



She Was a Phantom of Delight 123 

Of travellers in some shady haunt 
Among Arabian sands: 
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking the silence of the seas 
Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings? 
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
And battles long ago : 
Or is it some more humble lay, 
Famihar matter of to-day? 
Some natural sorrow, loss or pain, 
That has been, and may be again? 

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending; 
I saw her singing at her work, 
And o'er the sickle bending; — 
I listened, motionless and still; 
And, as I mounted up the hill, 
The music in my heart I bore, 
Long after it was heard no more. 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 

She was a phantom of delight 
When first she gleamed upon my sight, 
A lovely apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament; 
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May- time and the cheerful dawn; 
A dancing shape, an image gay, 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 



124 William Wordsworth 

I saw her upon nearer view, 
A spirit, yet a woman too! 
Her household motions hght and free, 
And steps of virgin hberty; 
A countenance in which did meet 
"Sweet records, promises as sweet; 
A creature not too bright or good 
For human nature's daily food; 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death; 
The reason firm, the temperate v/ill. 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 
A perfect woman, nobly planned 
To warn, to comfort, and command; 
And yet a spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel-light. 

SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A Maid whom there were none to praise 

And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye; 
Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be; 
But she is in her grave, and oh. 

The difference to me! 



Written in March 125 



A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL 

A SLUMBER did my spirit seal; 

I had no human fears: 
She seemed a thing that could not feel 

The touch of earthly years. 

No motion has she now, no force; 

She neither hears nor sees; 
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, 

With rocks, and stones, and trees. 



WRITTEN IN MARCH 

The Cock is crowing. 

The stream is flowing, 

The small birds twitter. 

The lake doth ghtter, 
The green field sleeps in the sun; 

The oldest and youngest 

Are at work with the strongest; 

The cattle are grazing. 

Their heads never raising; 
There are forty feeding like one! 

Like an army defeated 

The snow hath retreated, 

And now doth fare ill 

On the top of the bare hill; 
The ploughboy is whooping — anon — anon 

There's joy in the mountains; 

There's life in the fountains; 

Small clouds are sailing, 

Blue sky prevailing; 
The rain is over and gone! 



126 William Wordsworth 



THE INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS 

IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING THE IMAGINATION IN 
BOYHOOD AND EARLY YOUTH 

Wisdom and Spirit of the Universe! 

Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought, 

And givest to forms and images a breath 

And everlasting motion, not in vain, 

By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn 

Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me 

The passions that build up our human soul; 

Not with the mean and vulgar works of man, 

But with high objects, with enduring things. 

With life and nature — purifying thus 

The elements of feeling and of thought, 

And sanctifying by such discipline 

Both pain and fear, — until we recognise 

A grandeur in the beatings of the heart. 

Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me 

With stinted kindness. In November days. 

When vapours rolling down the valleys made 

A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods 

At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer nights. 

When, by the margin of the trembling lake. 

Beneath the gloomy hills, I homeward went 

In solitude, such intercourse was mine: 

'Twas mine among the fields both day and night, 

And by the waters, all the summer long. 

And in the frosty season, when the sun 

Was set, and, visible for many a mile. 

The cottage windows through the twilight blazed, 

I heeded not the summons: — happy time 

It was indeed for all of us; for me 

It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud 



The Influence of Natural Objects 127 

The village clock tolled six — I wheeled about, 

Proud and exulting like an untried horse 

That cares not for his home. All shod with steel 

We hissed along the polished ice, in games 

Confederate, imitative of the chase 

And woodland pleasures, — the resounding horn, 

The pack loud-bellowing, and the hunted hare. 

So through the darkness and the cold we flew, 

And not a voice was idle: with the din 

Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud; 

The leafless trees and every icy crag 

Tinkled like iron; while the distant hills 

Into the tumult sent an ahcn sound 

Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars. 

Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west 

The orange sky of evening died away. 

Not seldom from the uproar I retired 

Into a silent bay, or sportively 

Glanced sideways, leaving the tumultuous throng. 

To cut across the reflex of a star; 

Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed 

Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes. 

When we had given our bodies to the wind. 

And all the shadowy banks on either side 

Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still 

The rapid line of motion, then at once 

Have I, reclining back upon my heels. 

Stopped short; yet still the solitary clifTs 

Wheeled by me — even as if the earth had rolled 

With visible motion her diurnal round! 

Behind me did they stretch in solemn train. 

Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched 

Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. 



128 William Wordsworth 



I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD 

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

"When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees. 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 
They stretched in never ending line 
Along the margin of a bay: 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced; but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: 

A poet could not but be gay 

In such a jocund company: 

I gazed — and gazed — but httle thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought: 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood. 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 



TO A SKYLARK 

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? 



The Happy Warrior 129 

Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that music still! 

To the last point of vision, and beyond, 

Mount, daring warbler! — that love-prompted strain 

— 'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond — 

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: 

Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing 

All independent of the leafy spring. 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; 

A privacy of glorious light is thine. 

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more divine: 

Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam — 

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home ! 



THE HAPPY WARRIOR 

Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he 
That every man in arms should wish to be? 
— It is the generous Spirit, who when brought 
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought; 
Whose high endeavours are an inward light 
That makes the path before him always bright; 
Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; 
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 
But makes his moral being his prime care; 
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, 
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! 
Turns his necessity to glorious gain; 
In face of these doth exercise a power 
Which is our human nature's highest dower; 



130 William Wordsworth 

Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 

Of their bad influence, and their good receives; 

By objects, which might force the soul to abate 

Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; 

Is plagable — because occasions rise 

So often that demand such sacrifice ; 

More skilful in self-knowledge; even more pure, 

As tempted more; more able to endure, 

As more exposed to suffering and distress; 

Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 

— 'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends 

Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 

Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 

To evil for a guard against worse ill, 

And what in quality or act is best 

Doth seldom on a right foundation rest. 

He fixes good on good alone, and owes 

To virtue every triumph that he knows; 

— Who, if he rise to station of command. 

Rises by open means; and there will stand 

On honourable terms, or else retire. 

And in himself possess his own desire; 

Who comprehends his trust, and to the same 

Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; 

And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 

Por wealth, or honours, or for w^orldly state; 

Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, 

Like showers of manna, if the}^ come at all; 

Whose poAvers shed round him in the common strife. 

Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 

A constant influence, a peculiar grace; 

But who, if he be called upon to face 

Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined 

Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 

Is happy as a Lover; and attired 

With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired; 



The Happy Warrior 131 

And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 

In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw; 

Or if an unexpected call succeed, 

Come when it will, is equal to the need; 

— He who, though thus endued as with a sense 

And faculty for storm and turbulence. 

Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans 

To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; 

Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, 

Are at his heart; and such fidelity. 

It is his darhng passion to approve; 

More brave for this, that he hath much to love: — 

'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high, 

Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye, 

Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 

Who, with a toward or untoward lot, 

Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not — 

Plays, in the many games of life, that one 

Where what he most doth value must be won; 

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, 

Nor thought of tender happiness betray; 

Who, not content that former worth stand fast, 

Looks forward, persevering to the last. 

From well to better, daily self -surpassed ; 

Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth 

For ever, and to noble deeds give birth. 

Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame. 

And leave a dead unprofitable name — 

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; 

And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws 

His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause; 

This is the happy Warrior; this is he 

That every Man in arms should wish to be. 



132 William Wordsworth 

FIVE SONNETS 

Composed. liPON Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802 

Earth has not any thing to show more fair; 
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty; 
This city now doth Uke a garment wear 
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
Open unto the fields and to the sky. 
All bright and gUttering in the smokeless air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; 
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep; 
The river glideth at his own sweet will; 
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 

Milton! Thou Shouldst be Living at this Hour 

Milton! thou shouldst be Uving at this hour: 
England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, 

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 

Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; 
Oh, raise us up, return to us again. 

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart; 

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea : 
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 
So didst thou travel on life's common way. 

In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 
The lowhest duties on herself did lay. 



Five Sonnets 133 

Thought of a Briton * 

On the Subjugation of Switzerland, 1802 

Two Voices are there, one is of the Sea, 

One of the Mountains, each a mighty Voice; 

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice. 

They were thy chosen music. Liberty! 

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee 

Thou foughtest against him, — but hast vainly striven; 

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven 

Where not a torrent murmur's heard by thee. 

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft; 

Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left — 

For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be 

That Mountain floods should thunder as before, 

And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 

And neither awful Voice be heard by thee! 

A Flock of Sheep that Leisurely Pass by 

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by, 
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas. 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; 
I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 
Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies 
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees, 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, 
And could not win thee, Sleep, by any stealth. 
So do not let me wear to-night away: 
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? 
Come, blessed barrier between day and day, 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! 



134 Sydney Smith 

The World is too Much with us; Late anb Soon 

The world is too much with us; late and soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers. 
Little we see in Nature that is ours; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! 
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, 
The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune; 
It moves us not. — Great God! I'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 



SYDNEY SMITH 

1 77 1, Essex-London, 1S45 

A SALAD 

To make this condiment, your poet begs 

The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs; 

Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve, 

Smoothness and softness to the salad give; 

Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, 

And, half-suspected, animate the whole. 

Of mordant mustard add a single spoon. 

Distrust the condiment that bites so soon; 

But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault, 

To add a double quantity of salt; 

Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca drown. 

And twice with vinegar procured from town ; 

And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss 

A magic soupcon of anchovy sauce. 



Lochinvar 135 

Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat! 
'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat : 
Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, 
And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl! 
Serenely full, the epicure would say, 
Fate cannot harm mc, I have dined to-day. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT 

1771, Edinbiirgh-Abbotsford, 1832 
LOCHIN\AR 

From " Marmion " 

O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west, 
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; 
And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none, 
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. 

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, 

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; 

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate. 

The bride had consented, the gallant came late; 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all. 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, 

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), 

"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" 



136 Walter Scott 

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; — 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide, — 
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far. 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." 

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — ■ 
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face. 

That never a hall such a galliard did grace; 

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume. 

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; 

And the bride-maidens whispered, '"Twere better by far, 

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar. " 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear. 

When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; 

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 

So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 

"She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush, and scaur; 

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; 

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: 

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, 

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. 

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? 



Rosabelle 137 



PROUD MAISIE 

From " The Heart of Midlothian " 

Proud Maisie is in the wood, 

Walking so early; 
Sweet Robin sits on the bush, 

Singing so rarely. 

" Tell me, thou bonny bird, 

When shall I marry me?" 
"When six braw gentlemen 

Kirkward shall carry ye." 

"Who makes the bridal bed. 

Birdie, say truly?" 
"The gray-headed sexton 

That delves the grave duly. 

"The glow-worm o'er grave and stone 

Shall light thee steady; 
The owl from the steeple sing 

Welcome, proud lady!" 



ROSABELLE 

From " The Lay of the Last Minstrel " 

O LISTEN, listen, ladies gay! 

No haughty feat of arms I tell; 
Soft is the note, and sad the lay. 

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. 

"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! 

And, gentle Lady, deign to stay! 
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 



138 Walter Scott 

"The blackening wave is edged with white; 

To inch and rock the sea-mews fly: 
The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 

Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. 

"Last night the gifted Seer did view 
A wet shroud swathed round lady gay; 

Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; 
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?" 

" 'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
To-night at Roslin leads the ball, 

But that my lady-mother there 
Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 

" 'Tis not because the ring they ride, 
And Lindesay at the ring rides well, 

But that my sire the wine will chide 
If 'tis not filled by Rosabelle." 

O'er Roshn all that dreary night 
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 

'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, 
And redder than the bright moonbeam. 

It glared on Roslin's castled rock. 
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 

'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak. 
And seen from caverned Hawthornden. 

Seemed all on fire that chapel proud 
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined He, 

Each Baron, for a sable shroud, 
Sheathed in his iron panoply. 

Seemed all on fire within, around, 

Deep sacristy and altar's pale; 
Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 

And glimmered all the dead men's mail. 



Breathes There a Man with Soul so Dead 139 

Blazed battlement and pinnet high, 

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair, — 

So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
The lordly line of high Saint Clair. 

There arc twenty of Roshn's barons bold 
Lie buried within that proud chapelle; 

Each one the holy vault doth hold, — 
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle! 

And each Saint Clair was buried there 
With candle, with book, and with knell; 

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung 
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle ! 



BREATHES THERE A MAN WITH SOUL SO DEAD 

From " The Lay of the Last Minstrel " 

Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 
This is my own, my native land! 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
As home his footsteps he hath turned. 
From wandering on a foreign strand ! 
If such there breathe, go mark him well; 
For him no minstrel raptures swell; 
High though his titles, proud his name. 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
. The wretch, concentred all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown. 
And doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung. 
Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung. 



140 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 



BORDER BALLAD 

From " The Monastery " 

MarcIi, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale; 

Why the de'il dinna ye march forward in order? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale! 
All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border! 

Many a banner spread 

Flutters above your head, 
Many a crest that is famous in story. 

Mount and make ready, then, 

Sons of the mountain glen, 
Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory. 

Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing; 

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; 
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing; 
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. 

Trumpets are sounding; 

War-steeds are bounding; 
Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order. 

England shall many a day 

Tell of the bloody fray 
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 

1772, Devonshire-London, 1834 

AN EPIGRAM 

What is an epigram? a dwarfish whole, 
Its body brevity, and wit its soul. 



Work without Hope 141 



METRICAL FEET 

LESSON FOR A BOY 

Trochee trips from long to short; 

From long to long in solemn sort 

Slow Spondee stalks; strong foot! yet ill able 

Ever to come up with dactyl trisyllable. 

Iambics march from short to long; — 

With a leap and a bound the swift Anapaests throng; 

One syllable long, with one short at each side. 

Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride; — 

First and last being long, middle short, Amphimacer 

Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud highbred racer. 



WORK WITHOUT HOPE 

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair — 
The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing — • 
And Winter, slumbering in the open air, 
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! 
And I. the while, the sole unbusy thing, 
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. 
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow. 
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. 
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, 
For me ye bloom not! Glide rich streams away! 
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll; 
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? 
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, 
And Hope without an object cannot live. 



142 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 

KUBLA KHAN 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 

A stately pleasure-dome decree: 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Throutgh caverns measureless to man 

Down to a sunless sea. 
So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round : 
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, 
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But O! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 

A savage place! as holy and enchanted 

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 

By woman wailing for her demon-lover! 

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething. 

As if this Earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 

A mighty fountain momently was forced. 

Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 

Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : 

And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 

It flung up momently the sacred river. 

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 

Through wood and dale the sacred river ran. 

Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 

Ancestral voices prophesying war! 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
Floated midway on the waves; 
Where was heard the mingled measure 
From the fountain and the caves. 



The Cataract of Lodore 143 

It was a miracle of rare device, 

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw: 

It was an Abyssinian maid, 

And on her dulcimer she played, 

Singing of Mount Abora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song, 

To such a deep delight 'twould win me 
That with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air, 
That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 
And all who heard should see them there. 
And all should cry. Beware! Beware! 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 
Weave a circle round him thrice. 
And close your eyes with holy dread, 
For he on honey-dew hath fed, 
And drunk the milk of Paradise. 



ROBERT SOUTHEY 

1774, Bristol-Keswick, 1843 

THE CATARACT OF LODORE 

"How does the water 
Come down at Lodore?" 
My little boy asked me 
Thus, once on a time; 
And moreover he tasked me 
To tell him in rhyme. 
Anon, at the word, 
There first came one daughter. 
And then came another. 
To second and third 



144 Robert Southey 

The request of their brother, 
And to hear how the water 
Comes down at Lodore, 
With its rush and its roar, 
■ "-"v As many a time 

They had seen it before. 
So I told them in rhyme, 
For of rhymes I had store; 
And 'twas in my vocation 
For their recreation 
That so I should sing; 
Because I was Laureate 
To them and the King. 

From its sources which well 
In the tarn on the fell; 
From its fountains 
In the mountains, 
Its rills and its gills; 
Through moss and through brake, 
It runs and it creeps 
For a while, till it sleeps 
In its own little lake. 
And thence at departing. 
Awakening and starting, 
It runs through the reeds, 
And away it proceeds. 
Through meadow and glade, 

In sun and in shade, 
And through the wood-shelter, 
Among crags in its flurry. 
Helter-skelter, 
Hurry-skurry. 
Here it comes sparkling, 
And there it lies darkling; 
Now smoking and frothing 
Its tumult and wrath in, 



The Cataract of Lodore 145 

Till, in tliis rapid race 

On which it is bent, 

It reaches the place 
Of its steep descent. 

The cataract strong 
Then plunges along, 
Striking and raging 
As if a war raging 
Its caverns and rocks among; 
Rising and leaping. 
Sinking and creeping. 
Swelling and sweeping. 
Showering and springing. 
Flying and fhnging, 
Writhing and ringing. 
Eddying and whisking. 
Spouting and frisking, 
Turning and twisting. 
Around and around 
With endless rebound: 
Smiting and fighting, 
A sight to delight in; 
Confounding, astounding, 
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. 

Collecting, projecting. 
Receding and speeding. 
And shocking and rocking. 
And darting and parting. 
And threading and spreading. 
And whizzing and hissing. 
And dripping and skipping, 
And hitting and sphtting, 
And shining and twining. 
And rattUng and batthng, 
And shaking and quaking, 



146 Robert Southey 

And pouring and roaring, 
And waving and raving, 
And tossing and crossing, 
And flowing and going, 
■-V. And running and stunning. 
And foaming and roaming. 
And dinning and spinning, 
And dropping and hopping, 
And working and jerking. 
And guggling and struggling, 
And heaving and cleaving, 
And moaning and groaning; 



And glittering and frittering, 
And gathering and feathering, 
And whitening and brightening, 
And quivering and shivering, 
And hurrying and skurrying. 
And thundering and floundering; 

Dividing and gUding and sliding. 
And falling and brawling and sprawling. 
And driving and riving and striving, 
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, 
And sounding and bounding and rounding, 
And bubbling and troubling and doubling. 
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling. 
And clattering and battering and shattering; 

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, 
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying. 
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing. 
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling. 
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, 
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing. 
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping. 
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, 



My Days among the Dead Are Passed 147 

And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, 
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; 
And so never ending, but always descending, 
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending 
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, — 
And this way the water comes down at Lodore. 



MY DAYS AMONG THE DEAD ARE PASSED 

My days among the Dead are passed, 

Around me I behold, 
Where'er these casual eyes are cast. 

The mighty minds of old: 
My never-failing friends are they, 
With whom I converse day by day. 

With them I take delight in weal, 

And seek relief in woe; 
And while I understand and feel 

How much to them I owe. 
My cheeks have often been bedewed 
With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 

My thoughts are with the Dead; with them 

I live in long-past years. 
Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 

Partake their hopes and fears; 
And from their lessons seek and find 
Instruction with an humble mind. 

My hopes are with the Dead; anon 

My place with them will be. 
And I with them shall travel on 

Through all Futurity; 
Yet leaving here a name, I tnist. 
That will not perish in the dust. 



148 Walter Savage Landor 

JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE 

177s, Seville-Liverpool, 1841 

TO NIGHT 

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew 
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name. 
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 
This glorious canopy of light and blue? 
Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew. 
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 
Hesperus with the host of heaven came, 
And lo! creation widened on man's view. 
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 
Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find, 
While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, 
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind! 
Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife?— 
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life? 

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 

177S1 Warwick-Florence, 1864 

SHAKSPERE AND MILTON 

The tongue of England, that which myriads 
Have spoken and will speak, were paralyzed 
Hereafter, but two mighty men stand forth 
Above the flight of ages, two alone; 
One crying out, 

All nations spoke through me. 
The other: 

True; and through this trumpet burst 
God's word; the fall of Angels, aiid the doom 
First of immortal, then of mortal Man. 
Glory! be glory! not to me, to God! 



i 



Robert Browning 149 



MACAULAY 

The dreamy rhymer's measur'd snore 
Falls heavy on our cars no more; 
And by long strides are left behind 
The dear delights of womankind 
Who win their battles like their loves, 
In satin waistcoats and kid gloves, 
And have achiev'd the crowning work 
When they have truss'd and skewer'd a Turk. 
Another comes with stouter tread. 
And stalks among the statelier dead. 
He rushes on, and hails by turns 
High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns, 
And shows the British youth, who ne'er 
Will lag behind, what Romans were, 
When all the Tuscans and their Lars 
Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars. 



ROBERT BROWNING 

There is deUght in singing, though none hear 

Beside the singer; and there is delight 

In praising, though the praiser sit alone 

And see the prais'd far off him, far above. 

Shakspere is not our poet, but the world's; 

Therefore on him no speech! and brief for thee, 

Browning! Since Chaucer was ahve and hale. 

No man hath walk'd along our roads with step 

So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue 

So varied in discourse. But warmer climes 

Give brighter plumage, stronger wing: the breeze 

Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne on 

Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where 

The Siren waits thee, singing song for song. 



150 Thomas Campbell 



THOMAS CAMPBELL 

1777, Glasgow-Boulogne, 1844 

*YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 

Ye Mariners of England 

That guard our native seas! 
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 

The battle and the breeze! 
Your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe; 
And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 
While the battle rages loud and long 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave — 
For the deck it was their field of fame. 

And Ocean was their grave; 
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 

Your manly hearts shall glow. 
As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 
While the battle, etc. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep; 
Her march is o'er the mountain waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 
With thunders from her native oak 

She quells the floods below — 
As they roar on the shore. 

When the stormy winds do blow; 
While the battle, etc. 



Hohenlindcn 151 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn; 
Till danger's troubled night depart 

And the star of peace return. 
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! 

Our song and feast shall flow 
To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow; 
When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 



HOHENLINDEN 

On Linden, when the sun was low. 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, roUing rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight. 
When the drum beat at dead of night 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array'd 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neigh'd 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven; 
Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven; 
And louder than the bolts of Heaven 
Far flash'd the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow; 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, roUing rapidly. 



152 Thomas Moore 

'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

Tlie combat deepens. On, ye Brave 
Who rush to glory, or the grave! 
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry! 

Few, few shall part, where many meet; 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
ShaU be a soldier's sepulchre. 



THOMAS MOORE 

1779, Dublin-London, 1852 

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING 
YOUNG CHARMS 

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, 

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, 
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, 

Like fairy-gifts fading away, 
Thou wouldst stiU be adored, as this moment thou art; 

Let thy loveliness fade as it will, 
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart 

Would entwine itself verdantly still. 

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, 

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear. 
That the fervor and faith of a soul may be known. 

To which time will but make thee more dear! 



The Light of Other Days 153 

No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, 

But as truly loves on to the close, 
As the sunflower turns to her god when he sets 

The same look which she turned when he rose! 



THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed, 

Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls 

As if that soul were fled. 

So sleeps the pride of former days. 

So glory's thrill is o'er. 

And hearts that once beat high for praise 

Now feel that pulse no more. 

No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells; 

The chord alone that breaks at night 

Its tale of ruin tells. 

There Freedom now so seldom wakes. 

The only throb she gives 

Is when some heart indignant breaks, 

To show that still she lives. 



THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS 

Oft in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 
The smUes, the tears 
Of boyhood's years. 
The words of love then spoken; 
The eyes that shone, 
Now dimmed and gone 
The cheerful hearts now broken! 



154 Thomas Moore 

Thus in the stilly night, 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 

Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 

The friends so link'd together 
I've seen around me fall 

Like leaves in wintry weather, 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet hall deserted 
Whose lights are fled, 
Whose garlands dead. 
And all but he departed! 
Thus in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 



'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER 

'Tis the last rose of summer, 

Left blooming alone; 
All her lovely companions 

Are faded and gone; 
No flower of her kindred. 

No rose-bud is nigh, 
To reflect back her blushes, 

Or give sigh for sigh. 

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! 

To pine on the stem; 
Since the lovely are sleeping, 

Go, sleep thou with them. 



Contented John 155 

Thus kindly I scatter 

Thy leaves o'er the bed 
Where thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. 

So soon may / follow, 

When friendships decay, 
And from Love's shining circle 

The gems drop away. 
When true hearts lie withered. 

And fond ones are flown, 
O who would inhabit 

This bleak world alone? 



JANE TAYLOR 

1783, London-Essex, 1824 

CONTENTED JOHN 

One honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher, 
Although he was poor, did not want to be richer; 
For all such vain wishes in him were prevented 
By a fortunate habit of being contented. 

Though cold were the weather, or dear were the food, 
John never was found in a murmuring mood ; 
For this he was constantly heard to declare,— 
What he could not prevent he would cheerfully bear. 

"For why should I grumble and murmur?" he said; 
"If I cannot get meat, I'll be thankful for bread; 
And, though fretting may make my calamities deeper. 
It can never cause bread and cheese to be cheaper." 

If John was afflicted with sickness or pain. 

He wished himself better, but did not complain, 



156 Allan Cunningham 

Nor lie down to fret in. despondence and sorrow, 
But said that he hoped to be better to-morrow. 

If any one wronged him or treated him ill, 

Why, Jghn was good-natured and sociable still ; 

For he said that revenging the injury done 

Would be making two rogues when there need be but one. 

And thus honest John, though his station was hvmible. 
Passed through this sad world without even a grumble; 
And I wish that some folks, who are greater and richer, 
Would copy John Tomkins, the hedger and ditcher. 



ALLAN CUNNINGHAM 

1784, Dumfriesshire-London, 1842 

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA 

A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that foUows fast, 
And fills the white and rustling sail, 

And bends the gallant mast ; 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 

While, like the eagle free, 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on the lee. 

O for a soft and gentle wind ! 

I heard a fair one cry; 
But give to me the snoring breeze 

And white waves heaving high; 
And white waves heaving high, my boys, 

The good ship tight and free— 
The world of waters is our home, 

And merry men are we. 



The Glove and the Lions 157 

There's tempest in yon horned moon, 

And lightning in yon cloud; 
And hark the music, mariners! 

The wind is piping loud; 
The wind is piping loud, my boys, 

The lightning flashes free; 
While the hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 



LEIGH HUNT 

1784, Middlesex-Surrey, 1859 

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS 

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport. 
And one day, as his lions fought , sat looking on the court. 
The nobles fihed the benches, and the ladies in their pride. 
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom 

he sighed: 
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, 
Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. 

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; 

They bit, they glared, gave blows Uke beams, a wind went with 
their paws; 

With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one an- 
other, 

Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous 
smother; 

The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; 

Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than 
there." 

De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame. 
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed 
the same; 



158 Leigh Hunt 

She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; 
He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; 
King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; 
I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine." 

She dropped her glove to prove his love, then looked at him 

and smiled; 
He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild; 
The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his 

place, 
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's 

face. 
"By Heaven," said Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from 

where he sat; 
"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that." 

SNEEZING 

What a moment, what a doubt! 
All my nose is inside out, — 
All my thrilling, tickling caustic. 
Pyramid rhinocerostic, 

Wants to sneeze aijd cannot do it! 
How it yearns me, thrills me, stings me, 
How with rapturous torment wrings me! 

Now says, "Sneeze, you fool, — get through it." 
Shee — shee — oh! 'tis most del-ishi — 
Ishi — ishi — most del-ishi ! 
(Hang it, I shall sneeze till spring!) 
SnufJ is a delicious thing. 

ABOU BEN ADHEM 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw within the moonlight in his room. 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom. 



To the Grasshopper and the Cricket 159 

An angel writing in a book of gold. 

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 

And to the Presence in the room he said, 

"What writest thou?" — The vision raised its head, 

And with a look made of all sweet accord, 

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." 

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," 

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low. 

But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then. 

Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 

It came again with a great wakening light, 

And showed the names whom love of God had blessed. 

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 



JENNY KISSED ME 

Jenny kissed me when we met. 
Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 

Time, you thief, who love to get 
Sweets into your list, put that in! 

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad. 

Say that health and wealth have missed me. 

Say I'm growing old, but add, 
Jenny kissed me. 



TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET 

Green little vaulter in the .sunny grass. 
Catching your heart up at the feel of June; 
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, 
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass; 
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class 
With those who think the candles come too soon, 
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune 
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass; 



i6o Barry Cornwall 

O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong 

One to the fields, the other to the hearth. 

Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong 

At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth 

To sing in thoughtful ears their natural song — 

In-doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth. 



BARRY CORNWALL (BRYAN WALLER 
PROCTER) 

1787, London-London, 1874 

THE BLOOD HORSE 

Gamarra is a dainty steed, 
Strong, black, and of a noble breed, 
Full of fire, and full of bone, 
With all his line of fathers known; 
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, 
But blown abroad by the pride within. 
His mane is like a river flowing, 
And his eyes hke embers glowing 
In the darkness of the night. 
And his pace as swift as light. 

Look, — how 'round his straining throat 

Grace and shifting beauty float! 

Sinewy strength is in his reins, 

And the red blood gallops through his veins; 

Richer, redder, never ran 

Through the boasting heart of man. 

He can trace his lineage higher 

Than the Bourbon dare aspire, 

Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, 

Or O'Brien's blood itself! 



\ 



The Destruction of Sennacherib i6i 

He, who hath no peer, was bom, 

Here, upon a red March morn; 

But his famous fathers dead 

Were Arabs all, and Arab bred, 

And the last of that great line 

Trod like one of a race divine! 

And yet, — he was but friend to one 

Who fed him at the set of sun, 

By some lone fountain fringed with green: 

With him, a roving Bedouin, 

He lived (none else would he obey 

Through all the hot Arabian day). 

And died untamed upon the sands 

Where Balkh amidst the desert stands. 



GEORGE GORDON LORD BYRON 

1788, London-Missolonghi, Greece, 1824 
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB 

710 B. C. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold. 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; 
And the sheen of their spears was hke stars on the sea. 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen: 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown. 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chiU, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! 



i62 George Gordon Byron 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! 



THE EVE OF WATERLOO 

From " Childe Harold " 

June i8, 1815 

There was a sound of revelry by night. 
And Belgium's capital had gathered then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; 
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again. 
And all went merry as a marriage bell; — 
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes hke a rising knell! 

Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas but the wind, 

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; 

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 



The Eve of Waterloo 163 

To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 
But hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 
Arm! Arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar! 

Within a windowed niche of that high wall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear 
That soimd the first amidst the festival. 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; 
And when they smiled because he deemed it near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier. 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: 
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress. 
And cheeks aU pale, which but an hour ago 
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! 

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb. 
Or whispering, with white lips — "The foe! they come! they 
come!" 



164 George Gordon Byron 



THE OCEAN 

From " Childe Harold " 

There isr-a pleasure in the pathless woods, 

There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society where none intrudes, 

By the deep sea, and music in its roar; 

I love not man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 

From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the universe, and feel. 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll! 

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; 
Man marks the earth with ruin, — his control 

Stops with the shore; — upon the watery plain. 

The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own. 

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths, with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 

And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost aU despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. 

And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 

His petty hope in some near port or bay. 

And dashest him again to earth; — there let him lay. 

The armaments which thunder-strike the walls 

Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 



4 



The Ocean 165 

The oak leviathans^ whose huge ribs make 

Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thcc, and arbiter of war; 

These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? 

Thy waters washed them power while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 

Has dried up realms to deserts: — not so thou, 
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves play, — 

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow, — 

Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 

Glasses itself in tempests; in all time. 
Calm or convidsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm. 

Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime. 

Dark-heaving; — boundless, endless and sublime — 
The image of Eternity— the throne 

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone 
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 

Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, Uke thy bubbles, onward; from a boy 

I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me 

Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 

For I was as it were a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows, far and near. 
And laid my hand upon thy mane, as I do here. 



1 66 George Gordon Byron 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

Aad all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes, 

Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impaired the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress 
Or softly lightens o'er her face; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent ! 



ON CHILLON 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! 
Brightest in dungeons. Liberty! thou art, 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consigned, 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom. 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom. 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
ChillonI thy prison is a holy place, 
And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod. 



The Burial of Sir John Moore 167 

Until his very steps have left a trace, 
Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! 
For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



CHARLES WOLFE 

1791, Kildare-Cork, 1823 

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AFTER CORUNNA 
January 16, 1809 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning, 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty Hght 

And the lanthorn dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast. 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed 
And smoothed down his lonely pillow. 

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 
And we far away on the billow! 



i68 Percy Bysshe Shelley 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; 

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone with his glory. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

1792, Sussex-Spezia, Italy, 1822 

TO A SKYLARK 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 

Bird thou never wert. 
That from heaven, or near it, 
Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 

Higher still and higher. 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire ; 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun. 
O'er which clouds are bright'ning. 

Thou dost float and run; 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 



To a Skj^lark 169 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight; 
Like a star of heaven 

In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 

Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 

In the white dawn clear 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud, 
As, when night is bare, 

From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. 

What thou art we know not; 

What is most like thee? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 

Drops so bright to see 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: 

Like a high-bom maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 

Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 



170 Percy Bysshe Shelley 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 

Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view: 

Like a rose embowered 

In its own green leaves. 
By warm winds deflowered, 

Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves: 

Sound of vernal showers 
On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakened flowers. 
All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird. 

What sweet thoughts are thine: 
I have never heard 

Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 

Chorus hymeneal, 

Or triumphal chaunt. 
Matched with thine would be all 

But an empty vaunt — 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

Wha t objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains? 
What shapes of sky or plain? 
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 



To a Skylark 171 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be: 
Shadow of annoyance 

Never came near thee: 
Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 

We look before and after. 

And pine for what is not : 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear; 
If we were things born 

Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound, '. 

Better than all treasures 

That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know. 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow. 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now. 



172 Percy Bysshe Shelley 



THE CLOUD 

I BRi]^ fresh showers for the thirsting flowers 

From the seas and the streams; 
I bear hght shade for the leaves when laid 

In their noonday dreams. 
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken 

The sweet buds every one, 
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, 

As she dances about the sun. 
I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under; 
And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as I pass in thunder. 

I sift the snow on the mountains below. 

And their great pines groan aghast; 
And all the night 'tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. 
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers 

Lightning my pUot sits; 
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, 

It struggles and howls at fits. 

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion. 

This pilot is guiding me. 
Lured by the love of the Genii that move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. 

Over the lakes and the plains. 
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. 

The Spirit he loves remains; 
And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 



i 

I 



The Cloud I73 

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread, 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 

When the morning star shines dead. 
As on the jag of a mountain-crag. 

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, 
An eagle alit one moment may sit 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath. 

Its ardors of rest and of love, 
And the crimson pall of eve may fall 

From the depth of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 

That orbed maiden with white fire laden. 

Whom mortals call the Moon. 
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor 

By the midnight breezes strewn; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. 

Which only the angels hear. 
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, 

The Stars peep behind her and peer. 
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, 

Tfll the calm rivers, lakes, and seas. 
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. 

Are each paved with the moon and these. 

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone. 

And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl; 
The volcanoes are dim, and the Stars reel and swim, 

When the Whirlwinds my banner unfurl. 
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, 

Over a torrent sea, 
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof; 

The mountains its columns be. 



1/4 Percy Bysshe Shelley 

The triumphal arch through which I march, 

With hurricane, lire, and snow. 
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair, 

Is the million-colored bow; 
The Sphere-fire above its soft colors wove. 

While the moist Earth was laughing below. 

I am the daughter of Earth and Water, 

And the nursling of the Sky: 
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; 

I change, but I cannot die. 
For after the rain, when with never a stain 

The pavilion of heaven is bare, 
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams 

Build up the blue dome of air, 
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 

And out of the caverns of rain, 
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, 

I arise, and unbuild it again. 



ARETHUSA 

Arethusa arose 

From her couch of snows 
In the Acroceraunian mountains, — 

From cloud and from crag, 

With many a jag. 
Shepherding her bright fountains. 

She leapt down the rocks 

With her rainbow locks 
Streaming among the streams; 

Her steps paved with green 

The downward ravine 
Which slopes to the western gleams: 

And gliding and springing, 

She went, ever singing, 



Arethusa 17^ 

In murmurs as soft as sleep; 

The Earth seemed to love her, 

And Heaven smiled above her, 
As she lingered towards the deep. 

Then Alpheus bold, 

On his glacier cold, 
With his trident the mountains strook, 

And opened a chasm 

In the rocks;— with the spasm 
All Erymanthus shook. 

And the black south wind 

It concealed behind 
The urns of the silent snow, 

And earthquake and thunder 

Did rend in sunder 
The bars of the springs below. 

The beard and the hair 

Of the River-god were 
Seen through the torrent's sweep. 

As he followed the light 

Of the fleet nymph's flight 
To the brink of the Dorian deep. 

"Oh, save me! Oh, guide me! 

And bid the deep hide me! 
For he grasps me now by the hair!" 

The loud Ocean heard. 

To its blue depth stirred, 
And divided at her prayer; 

And under the water 

The Earth's white daughter 
Fled Kke a sunny beam; 

Behind her descended 

Her billows, unblended 
With the brackish Dorian stream. 



176 Percy Bysshe Shelley 

Like a gloomy stain 

On the emerald main, 
Alpheus rushed behind, — 

As an eagle pursuing 
•* A dove to its ruin 
Down the streams of the cloudy wind. 

Under the bowers 
Where the Ocean Powers 

Sit on their pearled thrones; 
Through the coral woods 
Of the weltering floods, 

Over heaps of unvalued stones; 
Through the dim beams 
Which amid the streams 

Weave a network of colored light; 
And under the caves 
Where the shadowy waves 

Are as green as the forest's night: 
Outspeeding the shark, 
And the swordfish dark, — 

Under the ocean foam, 

And up through the rifts 
Of the mountain clifts, — 

They passed to their Dorian home. 

And now from their fountains 

In Enna's mountains, 
Down one vale where the morning basks, 

Like friends once parted 

Grown single-hearted, 
They ply their watery tasks. 

At sunrise they leap 

From their cradles steep 
In the cave of the shelving hill; 

At noon tide they flow 

Through the woods below 



Music, When Soft Voices Die 177 

And the meadows of asphodel; 

And at night they sleep 

In the rocking deep 
Beneath the Ortygian shore; — 

Like the spirits that lie 

In the azure sky, 
When they love but live no more. 



OZYMANDIAS 

I MET a traveler from an antique land 
Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, 
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown 
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command 
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, 
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed ; 
And on the pedestal these words appear: 
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: 
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" 
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare. 
The lone and level sands stretch far away. 



MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE 

Music, when soft voices die. 
Vibrates in the memory- 
Odors, when sweet violets sicken, 
Live within the sense they quicken. 
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 
Are heaped for the beloved's bed; 
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone. 
Love itself shall slumber on. 



178 Percy Bysshe Shelley 



ODE TO THE WEST WIND 



O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low. 

Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azuie sister of the Spring shall blow 

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
With living hues and odors plain and hill; 

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; 
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear! 

II 

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion. 

Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, 
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, 

Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
like the bright hair uplifted from the head 

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge 

Of the horizon to the zenith's height. 
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 



Ode to the West Wind 179 

Of the dying year, to whicli this closing night 
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 
Vaulted -with all thy congregated might 

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: hear! 

ni 

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams 

The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams. 

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou 
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear. 
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear! 

IV 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 

The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 



l8o Percy Bysshe Shelley 

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 
Scarce seemed a vision — I would ne'er have striven 

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
O! hft me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! 
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! 

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed 
One too like thee — tameless, and swiit, and proud. 



Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: 

What if my leaves are falling like its own? 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone. 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, 
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! 

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, 

Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth; 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! 
Be through my lips to una wakened earth 

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, 

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 



Casablanca i8i 

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS 

1793, Liverpool-Dublin, 1835 

CASABIANCA 

Battle of the Nile, August, 1798 

The boy stood on the burning deck, 

Whence all but him had fled ; 
The flame that lit the battle's wreck 

Shone round him o'er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm; 
A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud though child-like form. 

The flames rolled on; he would not go 

Without his father's word; 
That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He called aloud, "Say, father, say. 

If yet my task be done!" 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 

Unconscious of his son. 

"Speak, father!" once again he cried, 

" If I may yet be gone ! " 
And but the booming shots replied, 

And fast the flames roUed on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 

And in his waving hair, 
And looked from that lone post of death 

In still yet brave despair; 



i82 John Keats 

And shouted but once more aloud, 

"My father! must I stay?" 
While o'er him, fast, through sail and shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild. 
They caught the flag on high, 

And streamed above the gallant child. 
Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound; 

The boy, — oh! where was he? 
Ask of the winds, that far around 

With fragments strewed the sea, — 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part, — 

But the noblest thing that perished there. 
Was that young, faithful heart. 



JOHN KEATS 

1795, London-Rome, 1821 

LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN 

Souls of Poets dead and gone. 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 
Than mine host's Canary wine? 
Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of venison? O generous food! 
Dressed as though bold Robin Hood 
Would, with his Maid Marian, 
Sup and bowse from horn and can. 



On First Looking into Chapman's Homer 183 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's sign-board flew away 
Nobody knew whither, till 
An Astrologer's old quill 
To a sheepskin gave the story, — 
Said he saw you in your glory, 
Underneath a new-old Sign 
Sipping beverage divine, 
And pledging with contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac! 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known — 
Happy field or mossy cavern- 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 



ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, 

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 

Round many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 

That deep-browed Homer nded as his demesne: 

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: 
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 

When a new planet swims into his ken; 
Or Hke stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes 

He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
Looked at each other with a wild surmise — 

Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 



184 John Keats 



ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET 

The poetry of earth is never dead: 

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, 

And hide in cooUng trees, a voice wiU run 

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead: 

That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead 

In summer luxury, — he has never done 

With his delights, for when tired out with fun, 

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 

The poetry of earth is ceasing never: 

On a lone winter evening, when the frost 

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills 

The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, 

And seems to one in drowsiness half-lost. 

The Grasshopper's among the grassy hills. 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 

Thou still unravished bride of quietness. 

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 

Of deities or mortals, or of both. 
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 

What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? 
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? 

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, 
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tune : 

Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; 



I 



Ode on a Grecian Urn 185 

Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; 
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bUss, 
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied, 

For ever piping songs for ever new; 
More happy love! more happy, happy love! 

For ever warm and still to be enjoyed. 
For ever panting and for ever young; 
All breathing human passion far above, 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 

To what green altar, mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 

And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed? 
What little town by river or sea-shore. 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden weed; 

Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral! 

When old age shall this generation waste. 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 



1 86 William Motherwell 

HARTLEY COLERIDGE 

1796, Somerset- Westmoreland, 1849 

SHE IS "NOT FAIR TO OUTWARD VIEW 

She is not fair to outward view- 
As many maidens be, 

Her loveliness I never knew 
Until she smiled on me; 

Oh! then I saw her eye was bright, 

A well of love, a spring of light. 

But now her looks are coy and cold, 

To mine they ne'er reply. 
And yet I cease not to behold 

The love-light in her eye: 
Her very frowns are fairer far 
Than smiles of other maidens are. 

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL 

1797, Glasgow- Glasgow, 1835 

THE CAVALIER'S SONG 

A STEED, a steed of matchless speed! 

A sword of metal keen! 
All else to noble hearts is dross, 

AU else on earth is mean. 
The neighing of the war-horse proud, 

The rolling of the drum, 
The clangor of the trumpet loud, 

Be sounds from heaven that come; 
And oh! the thundering press of knights, 

Whenas their war-cries swell, 
May tole from heaven an angel bright, 

And rouse a fiend from hell. 



Rory O'More 187 

Then mount! then mount, brave gallants all, 

And don your helms amain ; 
Death's couriers, Fame and Honor, call 

Us to the field again. 
No shrewish fears shall fill our eye 

When the sword-hilt's in our hand — 
Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sigh 

For the fairest of the land! 
Let piping swain, and craven wight 

Thus weep and puling cry; 
Our business is like man to fight, 

And hero-like to die! 



SAMUEL LOVER 

1797, Dublin- Jersey, 1868 

RORY O'MORE 

Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn, 
He was bold as a hawk, — she as soft as the dawn; 
He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please, 
And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. 
"Now, Rory, be ais}'," sweet Kathleen would cry 
(Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye), 
"With your tricks I don't know, in troth, what I'm about. 
Faith, you've teased till I've put on my cloak inside out." 
"Och! jewel," says Rory, "that same is the way 
You've thrated my heart for this many a day; 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? 
For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. 

"Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like, 
For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike ; 
The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound." 
"Faith," says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the ground! " 



1 88 Samuel Lover 

"Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go; 
Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hating you so!" 
"Oh," says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear, 
For drames always go by conthraries, my dear; 
So, jewel, keep framing that same till you die, 
And bright mornin' will give dirty night the black lie! 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? 
Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. 

"Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased me enough. 
Sure I've thrashed for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Dufif; 
And I've made myself, drinkin' your health, quite a baste. 
So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste." 
Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck. 
So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, 
And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light, 
And he kissed her sweet lips; — don't you think he was right? 
"Now, Rory, leave off, sir; you'll hug me no more; 
That's eight times to-day that you've kissed me before." 
"Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure. 
For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O'More. 



THE LOW-BACKED CAR 

When first I saw sweet Peggy, 

'Twas on a market day, 
A low-backed car she drove, and sat 

Upon a truss of hay; 
But when that hay was blooming grass 

And decked with flowers of Spring, 
No flower was there that could compare 

With the blooming girl I sing. 
A3 she sat in the low-backed car, 
The man at the turnpike bar 
Never asked for the toU, 
But just rubbed his ould poll, 
And looked after the low-backed car. 



) 



The Low-Backed Car 189 

In battle's wild commotion, 

The proud and mighty Mars, 
With hostile scythes, demands his tithes 

Of death — in warlike cars; 
While Pegg)^ peaceful goddess. 

Has darts in her bright eye, 
That knock men down in the market town. 

As right and left they fly; 
While she sits in her low-backed car. 
Than battle more dangerous far, — 
For the doctor's art 
Cannot cure the heart 
That is hit from that low-backed car. 



Sweet Peggy round her car, sir. 

Has strings of ducks and geese. 
But the scores of hearts she slaughters 

By far outnumber these; 
While she among her poultry sits. 

Just hke a turtle-dove. 
Well worth the cage, I do engage. 

Of the blooming god of Love! 
While she sits in her low-backed car. 
The lovers come near and far. 
And envy the chicken 
That Peggy is pickin', 
As she sits in her low-backed car. 

O, I'd rather own that car, sir. 

With Peggy by my side. 
Than a coach-and-four, and gold galore, 

And a lady for my bride; 
For the lady would sit forninst me. 

On a cushion made with taste, 
While Peggy would sit beside me. 

With my arm around her waist, — 



190 Thomas Hood 

While we drove in the low-backed car, 
To be married by Father Mahar, 
O, my heart would beat high 
At her glance and her sigh, — 
Though it beat in a low-backed car! 

THOMAS HOOD 

1799, London-London, 1845 

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER 

I REMEMBER, I remember 
The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 
Came peeping in at morn ; 
He never came a wink too soon 
Nor brought too long a day; 
But now, I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away. 

I remember, I remember 
The roses, red and white, 
The violets, and the lily-cups — 
Those flowers made of light! 
The lilacs where the robin built. 
And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday, — 
The tree is living yet! 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 

And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing; 

My spirit flew in feathers then 

That is so heavy now, 

The summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow. 



Ruth 191 



I remember, I remember 

The fir-trees dark and high; 

I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky: 

It was a childish ignorance. 

But now 'tis little joy 

To know I'm farther off from Heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 



RUTH 

She stood breast high among the corn, 
Clasped by the golden light of mom, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush, 
Deeply ripened; — such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born, 
Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell, 
Which were blackest none could tell, 
But long lashes veiled a light, 
That had else been all too bright. 

And her hat, with shady brim. 
Made her tressy forehead dim; 
Thus she stood amid the stooks. 
Praising God with sweetest looks: 

Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean, 
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean; 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come. 
Share my harvest and my home. 



192 Thomas Hood 



NO! 

No sun — no moon ! 
No mom^--no noon — 

No dawn — no dusk — no proper time of day — 
No sky — no earthly view — 
No distance looking blue — • 

No road — no street — no "t'other side the way" 
No end to any Row — 
No indications where the Crescents go— 
No top to any steeple — 

No recognitions of familiar people — 
No courtesies for showing 'em — 
No knowing 'em! 

No travelling at all — no locomotion, 

No inkling of the way — no notion — 
"No go"— by land or ocean — 
No mail — no post — 
No news from any foreign coast — 

No park — no ring — no afternoon gentility — 
No company — no nobility — 

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease. 
No comfortable feel in any member — 
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, 
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, 
November! 



TO MINERVA 

FROM THE GREEK 

My temples throb, my pulses boil, 

I'm sick of Song, and Ode, and Ballad- 

So, Thyrsis, take the Midnight Oil, 
And pour it on a lobster salad. 



Annie Laurie 193 

My brain is dull, my sight is foul, 

I cannot write a verse, or read, — 
Then, Pallas, take away thine Owl, 

And let us have a lark instead. 



ELIZABETH TURNER 

— ? England- England, 1846 

POLITENESS 

Good little boys should never say 
"I will," and "Give me these"; 

0,.no! that never is the way, 
But " Mother, if you please." 

And "If you please," to Sister Ann 
Good boys to say are ready; 

And, "Yes, sir," to a Gentleman, 
And, "Yes, ma'am," to a Lady. 



WILLIAM DOUGLAS 

Dates and home unknown 

ANNIE LAURIE 

Maxwelton braes are bonnie. 

Where early fa's the dew, 
And it's there that Annie Laurie 

Gie'd me her promise true — 
Gie'd me her promise true. 

Which ne'er forgot will be; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'd lay me doun and dee. 



194 Thomas Babington Macaulay 

Her brow is like the snaw-drif t ; 
Her throat is like the swan; 
Her face it is the fairest 

That e'er the sun shone on — ■ 
...That e'er the sun shone on, 
" And dark blue is her ee; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I'd lay me doun and dee. 

Like dew on the gowan lying 

Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; 
And like winds in summer sighing, 

Her voice is low and sweet— 
Her voice is low and sweet, 

And she's a' the world to me; 
And for bonnie Annie Laurie 

I'd lay me doun and dee. 

THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY 

1800, Leicestershire-London, 1859 

IVRY 

March 14, 1590 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! 
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! 
Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, 
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant 

land of France! 
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, 
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. 
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy ; 
For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls 

annoy. 
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war. 
Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. 



4 



Ivry 195 

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, 
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; 
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers. 
And Appenzcl's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. 
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; 
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; 
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled 

flood, 
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; 
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, 
To fight for His own holy name, and Henrj' of Navarre. 

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor dressed ; 
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. 
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; 
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. 
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, 
Down all our line, a deafening shout: "God save our Lord the 

King!" 
"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may. 
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, 
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of 

war, 
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." 

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din. 

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. 

The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, 

With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. 

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, 

Charge for the golden hlies, — upon them with the lance! 

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, 

A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white 

crest; 
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, Uke a guiding 

star. 
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. 



196 Thomas Babington Macaulay 

Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned 

his rein; 
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter; the Flemish count is slain. 
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; 
The field is helped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven 

mail. 
And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, 
"Remember Saint Bartholomew!" was passed from man to 

man. 
But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe: 
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." 
Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, 
As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre? 

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France 

to-day ; 
And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. 
But we of the religion have borne us best in fight ; 
And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white. 
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, 
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. 
Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know 
How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His 

Church such woe. 
Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point 

of war, 
Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre. 

Ho ! maidens of Vienna ; ho ! matrons of Lucerne ; 

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. 

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles. 

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's 

souls. 
Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be 

bright; 
Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night; 



The Pillar of the Cloud 197 

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the 

slave, 
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. 
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; 
And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre! 



JOHN HENRY, CARDINAL NEWMAN 

1801, London-Liverpool, 1890 

THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD 

Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 

Lead Thou me on ! 
The night is dark, and I am far from home — 

Lead Thou me on! 
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see 
The distant scene, — one step enough for me. 

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou 

Shouidst lead me on. 
I loved to choose and see my path; but now 

Lead Thou me on! 
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears. 
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years. 

So long Thy power hath blessed me. sure it still 

Will lead me on, 
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 

The night is gone; 
And with the morn those angel faces smile 
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 



198 Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

1809, Durham-Florence, 1861 

-^ THREE SONNETS 

I Thought How Once THEOciaxus Had Sung 

I THOUGHT how once Theocritus had sung 

Of the sweet years, the dear and wish'd-for years. 

Who each one in a gracious hand appears 

To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: 

And, as I mus'd it in his antique tongue, 

I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, 

The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years. 

Those of my own life, who by turns had flung 

A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware. 

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move 

Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair; 

And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,— 

"Guess now who holds thee!" — "Death," I said. But, there. 

The silver answer rang — "Not Death, but Love." 

If Thou Must Love Me, Let it be for Naught 

If thou must love me, let it be for naught 

Except for love's sake only. Do not say 

"I love her for her smile — her look — her way 

Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought 

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 

A sense of pleasant ease on such a day"— 

For these things in themselves, Beloved, may 

Be changed, or change for thee, — and love so wrought, 

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for 

Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry, — 

A creature might forget to weep, who bore 

Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! 



A Court Lady 199 

But love me for love's sake, that evermore 
Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity. 



How Do I Love Thee? Let Me Count the Ways 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. 

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 

I love thee to the level of everyday's 

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. 

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; 

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. 

I love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 

With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath, 

Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 



A COURT LADY 

Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with purple were dark, 
Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and restless spark. 

Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race; 
Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face. 

Never was lady on earth more true as woman and wife, 
Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in manners and life. 

She stood in the early morning, and said to her maidens, " Bring 
That silken robe made ready to wear at the Court of the King. 

"Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, clear of the mote. 
Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the small at the 
throat. 



200 Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

"Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to fasten the 

sleeves, 
Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of snow from the 

eaves." 

Gorgeous she "entered the sunlight which gathered her up in 

a flame. 
While, straight in her open carriage, she to the hospital came. 

In she went at the door, and gazing from end to end, 

" Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place of a friend." 

Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a young man's 

bed: 
Bloody the band on his brow, and hvid the droop of his head. 

"Art thou a Lombard, my brother? Happy art thou," she cried. 
And smiled like Italy on him: he dreamed in her face and 
died. 

Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second: 
He was a grave hard man, whose years by dungeonS' were 
reckoned. 

Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were sorer. 
"Art thou a Romagnole?" Her eyes drove lightnings before 
her. 

"Austrian and priest had joined to double and tighten the cord 
Able to bind thee, O strong one, — free by the stroke of a sword. 

"Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life overcast 
To ripen our wine of the present, (too new) in glooms of the 
past." 

Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like a girl's, 
Young, and pathetic with dying, — a deep black hole in the curls. 



A Court Lady 20i 

"Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou, dreaming in 

pain, 
Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the hst of the slain? " 

Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks with her 

hands: 
"Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she should weep 

as she stands." 

On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball: 
Kneeling, — "O more than my brother! how shall I thank thee 
for all? 

"Each of the heroes around us has fought for his land and 

line. 
But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong not thine. 

"Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossessed: 
But blessed are those among nations, who dare to be strong 
for the rest!" 

Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch where pined 
One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope out of mind. 

Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the name, 
But two great crystal tears were all that faltered and came. 

Only a tear for Venice? — she turned as in passion and loss. 
And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as if she were kissing 
the cross. 

Faint with that strain of heart she moved on then to another, 
Stern and strong in his death. "And dost thou suffer, my 
brother?" 

Holding his hands in hers: — "Out of the Piedmont lion 
Cometh the sweetness of freedom! sweetest to live or to die on." 



202 Alfred Tennyson 

Holding his cold rough hands,^" Well, oh, well have ye done 
In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble alone." 

Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet with a spring, 
"That was a Ejedmontese! and this is the Court of the King." 



ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 

1809, Lincolnshire-Surrey, 1892 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 

Break, break, break. 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O, well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 

0, well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 

And the stately ships go on, 
To their haven under the hill; 

But O for the touch of a vanished hand, 
And the sound of a voice that is still! 

Break, break, break. 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 



The Charge of the Light Brigade 203 
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 

BALACLAVA, OCTOBER 25, 1852 

Half a league, half a league, 

Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 
"Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns!" he said: 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

"Forward, the Light Brigade!" 
Was there a man dismayed? 
Not though the soldier knew 

Some one had blundered: 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die: 
Into the vaUey of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volleyed and thundered; 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly thej^ rode and well, 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare, 
Flashed as they turned in air 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 
All the world wondered: 



204 Alfred Tennyson 

Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Right through the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the sabre-stroke, 

Shattered and sundered. 
Then they rode back, but not. 

Not the six himdred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volleyed and thundered; 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came through the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade? 
O the wild charge they made! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade, 

Noble six hundred! 



THE SPLENDOR FALLS ON CASTLE WALLS 

From " The Princess" 

The splendor falls on castle walls 

And snowy summits old in story: 
The long light shakes across the lakes. 
And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 



Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead 205 

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, 

And thinner, clearer, farther going! 
O sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: 
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 

They faint on hill or field or river: 
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow for ever and for ever. 
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 



HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD 

From " The Princess " 

Home they brought her warrior dead ; 

She nor swooned, nor uttered cry. 
All her maidens, watching, said, 

"She must weep or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Called him worthy to be loved. 

Truest friend and noblest foe; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place. 
Lightly to the warrior stepped, 

Took the face-cloth from the face; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years. 

Set his child upon her knee, — 
Like summer tempest came her tears, 

"Sweet my child, I live for thee." 



2o6 Alfred Tennyson 



SIR GALAHAD 

My good blade carves the casques of men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure, 
My strength is as the strength of ten, 

Because my heart is pure. 
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 

The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The sphntered spear-shafts crack and fly, 

The horse and rider reel: 
They reel, they roll in clanging lists. 

And when the tide of combat stands, 
Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 

That lightly rain from ladies' hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 

On whom their favors fall! 
For them I battle till the end, 

To save from shame and thrall: 
But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine : 
I never felt the kiss of love. 

Nor maiden's hand in mine. 
More bounteous aspects on me beam, 

Me mightier transports move and thrill; 
So keep I fair through faith and prayer 

A virgin heart in work and will. 

When down the stormy crescent goes, 

A light before me swims, 
Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns : 
Then by some secret shrine I ride; 

I hear a voice, but none are there; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 

The tapers burning fair. 



Sir Galahad 207 

Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 

And solemn chaunts resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 

I find a magic bark; 
I leap on board; no helmsman steers: 

I float till all is dark. 
A gentle sound, an awful light! 

Three angels bear the Holy Grail: 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 

On sleeping wings they sail. 
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 
As down dark tides the glory slides. 

And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 

Through dreaming towns I go. 
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn. 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 

And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; 
But o'er the dark a glory spreads. 

And gilds the driving hail. 
I leave the plain, I climb the height; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 

Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. 

A maiden knight — to me is given 

Such hope, I know not fear; 
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven 

That often meet me here. 
I muse on joy that will not cease. 

Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 



2o8 Alfred Tennyson 

Pure lilies of eternal peace. 

Whose odors haunt my dreams; 

And, stricken by an angel's hand, 
This mortal armor that I wear, 

This.weight and size, this heart and eyes, 
Are touched, are turned to finest air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky. 

And through the mountain-walls 
A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod. 

Wings flutter, voices hover clear: 
"O just and faithful knight of God! 

Ride on! the prize is near." 
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; 

By bridge and ford, by park and pale, 
All-armed I ride, whate'er betide. 

Until I find the Holy Grail. 



ULYSSES 

It little profits that an idle king, 

By this still hearth, among these barren crags, 

Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole 

Unequal laws unto a savage race, 

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. 

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink 

Life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed 

Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those 

That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when 

Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades 

Vexed the dim sea. I am become a name; 

For always roaming with a hungry heart 

Much have I seen and known, — cities of men 

And manners, climates, councils, governments. 



Ulysses 209 

Myself not least, but honored of them all; 

And drunk delight of battle with my peers, 

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 

I am a part of all that I have met; 

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough 

Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades 

For ever and for ever when I move. 

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, 

To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! 

As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life 

Were all too little, and of one to me 

Little remains: but every hour is saved 

From that eternal silence, something more, 

A bringer of new things; and vile it were 

For some three suns to store and hoard myself. 

And this gray spirit yearning in desire 

To follow knowledge like a sinking star. 

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus, 
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil 
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild 
A rugged people, and through soft degrees 
Subdue them to the useful and the good. 
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere 
Of common duties, decent not to fail 
In offices of tenderness, and pay 
Meet adoration to my household gods, 
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. 

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: 
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, 
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me — 
That ever with a froUc welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — ^you and I are old; 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil; 
Death closes all: but something ere the end, 



2IO Alfred Tennyson 

Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods. 
The Hghts begin to twinkle from the rocks: 
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep 
Moans roynd with many voices. Come, my friends, 
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die. 
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; 
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, 
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. 
Though much is taken, much abides; and though 
We are not now that strength which in old days 
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are- 
One equal temper of heroic hearts, 
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will 
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. 

THE EAGLE 

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands. 
Ringed with the azure world, he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; 
He watches from his mountain walls, 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 



THE HIGHER PANTHEISM 

The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains, 
Are not these, Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns? 

Is not the Vision He, though He be not that which He seems? 
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams? 



The Brook's Song 211 

Earth, these solid stars, this weight of body and hmb, 
Are they not sign and symbol of thy division from Him? 

Dark is the world to thee: thyself art the reason why; 

For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel "I am I"? 

Glory about thee, without thee; and thou fulfillest thy doom, 
Making Him broken gleams, and a stifled splendor and gloom. 

Speak to Him. thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can 

meet — 
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. 

God is law, say the wise; O Soul, and let us rejoice, 
For if He thunder by law the thunder is yet His voice. 

Law is God, say some: no God at all, says the fool, 

For all we have power to see is a straight staff bent in a pool; 

And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see; 
But if we could see and hear, this Vision — were it not He? 



FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED WALL 

Flower in the crannied wall, 

I pluck you out of the crannies, 

I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, 

Little flower— but if I could understand 

What you are, root and all, and all in all, 

I should know what God and man is. 



THE BROOK'S SONG 

From " The Brook " 

I COME from haunts of coot and hern, 

I make a sudden sally, 
And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 



212 Alfred Tennyson 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 
Or slip between the ridges, 

By twenty thorps, a Httle town, 
And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip's farm I flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

I chatter over stony ways. 
In Uttle sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 
I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow. 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 

To join the brimming river, 
For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 

I wind about, and in and out. 
With here a blossom sailing. 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayhng, 

And here and there a foamy flake 

Upon me, as I travel 
With many a silvery water-break 

Above the golden gravel, 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river. 

For men may come and men may go. 
But I go on for ever. 



A Tribute to His Mother 213 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers; 
I move the sweet forget-me-nots 

That grow for happy lovers. 

I shp, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 

Among my skimming swallows; 
I make the netted sunbeam dance 

Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 

In brambly wildernesses; 
I linger by my shingly bars; 

I loiter round my cresses; 

And out again I curve and flow 

To join the brimming river. 
For men may come and men may go, 

But I go on for ever. 



A TRIBUTE TO HIS MOTHER 

From " The Princess " 

"Alone," I said, "from earlier than I know. 
Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world, 
I loved the woman: he that doth not, Uves 
A drowning life, besotted in sweet self, 
Or pines in sad experience worse than death. 
Or keeps his wing'd affections dipt with crime. 
Yet there was one through whom I loved her, one 
Not learned save in gracious household ways, 
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants, 
No Angel, but a dearer being all dipt 
In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, 
Interpreter between the gods and men, 
Who looked all native to her place, and yet 



214 Alfred Tennyson 

On tiptoe seemed to touch upon a sphere 
Too gross to tread ; and all male minds perforce 
Swayed to her from their orbits as they moved, 
And girdled her with Music. Happy he 
With such a mother! Faith in womankind 
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high 
Comes easy to him; and, tho' he trip and fall, 
He shall not blind his soul with clay." 



RING OUT, WILD BELLS 

From " In Memoriam " 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light; 
The year is dying in the night; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new; 

Ring, happy bells, across the snow; 

The year is going, let him go; 
Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor. 

Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause 
And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life. 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood. 
The civic slander and the spite; 
Ring in the love of truth and right, 

Ring in the common love of good. 



Crossing the Bar 215 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, 
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; 
Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free. 

The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 

Ring out the darkness of the land, 
Ring in the Christ that is to be. 



CROSSING THE BAR 

Sunset and evening star. 

And one clear call for me! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

When I put out to sea, 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 

Too full for sound and foam. 
When that which drew from out the boundless deep 

Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell. 

And after that the dark! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell, 

When I embark; 7 

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 

When I have crossed the bar 



2i6 William Makepeace Thackeray 
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 

1811, Calcutta-London, 1863 

"V LITTLE BILLEE 

There were three sailors of Bristol city 
Who took a boat and went to sea. 
But first with beef and captain's biscuits 
And pickled pork they loaded she. 

There was gorging Jack and guzzling Jimmy, 
And the youngest he was little Billee. 
Now when they got as far as the Equator 
They'd nothing left but one split pea. 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
"I am extremely hungaree." 
To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, 
"We've nothing left, us must eat we." 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
"With one another we shouldn't agree! 
There's little Bill, he's young and tender, 
We're old and tough, so let's eat he." 

"Oh, Billy, we're going to kill and eat you, 
So undo the button of your chemie." 
When Bill received this information 
He used his pocket handkerchie. 

" First let me say my catechism. 
Which my poor mammy taught to me." 
"Make haste, make haste," says guzzling Jimmy, 
While Jack pulled out his snickersnee. 

So Billy went up to the main-top gallant mast. 
And down he fell on his bended knee. 



Sorrows of Werther 217 

He scarce had come to the twelfth commandment 
When up he jumps. "There's land I see: 

"Jerusalem and Madagascar, 
And North and South Amerikee: 
There's the British flag a-riding at anchor, 
With Admiral Napier, K. C. B." 

So when they got aboard of the Admiral's, 
He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee: 
But as for little Bill, he made him 
The Captain of a Seventy-three. 



SORROWS OF WERTHER 

Werther had a love for Charlotte 
Such as words could never utter; 

Would you know how first he met her? 
She was cutting bread and butter. 

Charlotte was a married lady. 
And a moral man was Werther, 

And, for all the wealth of Indies, 
Would do nothing for to hurt her. 

So he sighed and pined and ogled. 
And his passion boiled and bubbled, 

Till he blew his silly brains out, 
And no more was by it troubled. 

Charlotte, having seen his body 
Borne before her on a shutter. 

Like a well-conducted person, 

Went on cutting bread and butter. 



2i8 William Makepeace Thackeray 



AT THE CHURCH GATE 

From " Pendennis " 

, Although I enter not, 
Yet round about the spot 

Ofttimes I hover; 
And near the sacred gate, 
With longing eyes I wait. 

Expectant of her. 

The Minster bell tolls out 
Above the city's rout, 

And noise and humming; 
They've hushed the Minster bell: 
The organ 'gins to swell; 

She's coming, she's coming! 

My lady comes at last, 
Timid, and stepping fast 

And hastening hither, 
With modest eyes downcast; 
She comes — she's here — she's past! 

May heaven go with her! 

Kneel undisturbed, fair Saint! 
Pour out your praise or plaint 

Meekly and duly; 
I will not enter there, 
To sully your pure prayer 

With thoughts unruly. 

But suffer me to pace 
Round the forbidden place, 

Lingering a minute, 
Like outcast spirits, who wait. 
And see, through heaven's gate, 

Angels within it. 



The End of the Play 219 



THE END OF THE PLAY 

The play is done; the curtain drops, 
Slow falling to the prompter's bell: 

A moment yet the actor stops, 
. And looks around, to say farewell. 

It is an irksome word and task; 

And, when he's laughed and said his say, 

He shows, as he removes the mask, 
A face that's anything but gay. 

One word, ere yet the evening ends; 

Let's close it with a parting rhyme; 
And pledge a hand to all young friends. 

As fits the merry Christmas-time. 
On Life's wide scene you, too, have parts. 

That Fate ere long shall bid you play; 
Good-night ! with honest gentle hearts 

A kindly greeting go alway! 

Good-night — I'd say, the griefs, the joys, 

Just hinted in this mimic page. 
The triumphs and defeats of boys. 

Are but repeated in our age. 
I'd say, your woes were not less keen. 

Your hopes more vain, than those of men ; 
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen 

At forty-five played o'er again. 

I'd say, we suffer and we strive, 

Not less nor more as men than boys; 
With grizzled beards at forty-five, 

As erst at twelve in corduroys. 
And if, in time of sacred youth, 

We learned at home to love and pray, 
Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth 

May never wholly pass away. 



220 William Makepeace Thackeray 

And in the world, as in the school, 

I'd say, how fate may change and shift; 
The prize be sometimes with the fool. 

The race not always to the swift. 
The strong may yield, the good may fall. 

The great man be a vulgar clown, 
The knave be lifted over all. 

The kind cast pitilessly down. 



Who knows the inscrutable design? 

Blessed be He who took and gave! 
Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, 

Be weeping at her darling's grave? 
We bow to Heaven that willed it so. 

That darkly rules the fate of all. 
That sends the respite or the blow. 

That's free to give, or to recall. 

This crowns his feast with wine and wit: 

Who brought him to that mirth and state? 
His betters, see, below him sit. 

Or hunger hopeless at the gate. 
Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel 

To spurn the rags of Lazarus? 
Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel, 

Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. 

So each shall mourn, in life's advance, 

Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely kiUed; 
Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, 

And longing passion unfulfilled. 
Anien! whatever fate be sent. 

Pray God the heart may kindly glow, 
Although the head with cares be bent, 

And whitened with the winter snow. 



Incident of the French Camp 221 

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, 

Let young and old accept their part, 
And bow before the Awful Will, 

And bear it with an honest heart, 
Who misses, or who wins the prize. 

Go, lose or conquer as you can; 
But if you fail, or if you rise. 

Be each, pray God, a gentleman. 

A gentleman, or old or young! 

(Bear kindly with my humble lays) ; 
The sacred chorus first was sung 

Upon the first of Christmas days: 
The shepherds heard it overhead — 

The joyful angels raised it then: 
Glory to Heaven on high, it said, 

And peace on earth to gentle men! 

My song, save this, is little worth; 

I lay the weary pen aside. 
And wish you health, and love, and mirth, 

As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. 
As fits the holy Christmas birth, 

Be this, good friends, our carol still — 
Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, 

To men of gentle will. 

ROBERT BROWNING 

18 1 2, London-Venice, 1889 
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 



You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-day; 



222 Robert Browning 

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 
Legs wide, arms locked behind, 

As if to balance the prone brow 
Oppressive with its mind. 



II 

Just as perhaps he mused "My plans 

That soar, to earth may fall, 
Let once my army-leader Lannes 

Waver at yonder wall," — 
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 



ni 

Then off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy ; 

You hardly could suspect — 
(So tight he kept his lips compressed. 

Scarce any blood came through) 
You looked twice ere you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 



IV 

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace 

We've got you Ratisbon! 
The Marshal's in the market-place, 

And you'll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire, 
Perched him! " The chief's eye flashed; his plans 

Soared up again like fire. 



How They Brought the Good News 223 



The chief's eye flashed; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother-eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes; 
"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride 

Touched to the quick, he said: 
"I'm killed, Sire! " And his chief beside 

Smiling the boy fell dead. 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM 
GHENT TO AIX 



I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 

"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; 

"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; 

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

n 

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, 
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

Ill 

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near 
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; 
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; 
At Diiffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; 



224 Robert Browning 

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, 
So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!" 



IV 

At Aershot,\ip leaped of a sudden the sun, 
And against him the cattle stood black every one, 
To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past. 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: 



And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon 
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 



By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, 
We'll remember at Aix" — for one heard the quick wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

VII 

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; 

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 

'Neath"our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white. 

And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!" 



Herve Riel 225 

vni 

" How they'll greet us! " — and all in a moment his roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; 
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 



Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, 

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all. 

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. 

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; 

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, 

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 



And all I remember is — friends flocking round 

As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; 

And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine. 

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 

Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 

Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. 



HERVE RIEL 

May 31, 1692 
I 

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, 
Did the Enghsh fight the French, — woe to France! 

And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue. 

Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, 
Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Ranee, 

With the Enghsh fleet in view. 



226 Robert Browning 

II 

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; 
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville ; 
Close on him fled, great and small, 
Twenty-fwo good ships in all; 
And they signalled to the place 
"Help the winners of a race! 

Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick — or, quicker 

still, 
Here's the English can and will!" 

Ill 

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board ; 
"Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" 

laughed they: 
"Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and 

scored. 
Shall the Formidable here, with her twelve-and-eighty guns, 
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way. 
Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, 
And with flow at full beside? 
Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. 
Reach the mooring? Rather say, 
While rock stands or water runs. 
Not a ship will leave the bay!" 

IV 

Then was called a council straight. 

Brief and bitter the debate: 

"Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take 

in tow 
All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, 
For a prize to Plymouth Sound? 
Better run the ships aground!" 
(Ended Damfreville his speech). 



Herve Riel 227 

"Not a minute more to wait! 

Let the Captains all and each 

Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! 
France must undergo her fate. 



" Give the word ! " But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard ; 

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these 
^A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate — first, second, third? 

No such man of mark, and meet 

With his betters to compete! 

But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, 
A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. 

VI 

And "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Herve 

Riel: 
"Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or 

rogues? 
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell 
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 

'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river disembogues? 
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? 
Morn and eve, night and day, 
Have I piloted your bay. 
Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. 

Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty 
Hogues ! 
Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's 
a way! 
Only let me lead the line, 

Have the biggest ship to steer, 
Get this Formidable clear, 
Make the others follow mine, 



228 Robert Browning 

And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, 
Right to Solidor past Greve, 

And there lay them safe and sound; 
And if one ship misbehave, — 
— KeelsQ much as grate the ground, 
Why, I've nothing but my life, — here's my head!" cries Herve 
Riel. 



vn 

Not a minute more to wait. 
"Steer us in, then, small and great! 

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its 
chief. 
Captains, give the sailor place! 

He is Admiral, in brief. 
Still the north-wind, by God's grace! 
See the noble fellow's face 
As the big ship, with a bound. 
Clears the entry like a hound. 

Keeps the passage, as its inch of way were the wide seas pro- 
found ! 

See, safe through shoal and rock. 

How they follow in a flock, 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground. 

Not a spar that comes to grief! 
The peril, see, is past. 
All are harbored to the last. 

And just as Herve Riel hollas "Anchor!" — sure as fate. 
Up the English come, — too late! 

VIII 

So, the storm subsides to calm: 
They see the green trees wave 
On the heights o'erlooking Greve. 
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 



Herve Riel 229 

"Just our rapture to enhance, 

Let the EngUsh rake the bay, 
Gnash their teeth and glare askance 

As they cannonade away! 
'Neath rampired Sohdor pleasant riding on the Ranee!" 
How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! 
Out burst all with one accord, 

"This is Paradise for Hell! 
Let France, let France's King 
Thank the man that did the thing!" 
What a shout, and all one word, 

"Herve Riel!" 
As he stepped in front once more, 

Not a symptom of surprise 

In the frank blue Breton eyes, 
Just the same man as before. 



Then said Damfreville, "My friend, 
I must speak out at the end, 

Though I find the speaking hard. 
Praise is deeper than the lips: 
You have saved the King his ships, 

You must name your own reward. 
'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! 
Demand whate'er you will, 
France remains your debtor still. 

Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfre- 
ville." 



Then a beam of fun outbroke 
On the bearded mouth that spoke. 
As the honest heart laughed through 
Those frank eyes of Breton blue: 



230 Robert Browning 

" Since I needs must say my say, 

Since on board the duty's done, 

x\nd from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a 
run? — 
Since 'tis ask and have, I may — 

Since the otTiers go ashore — 
Come! A good whole hoHday! 

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore! " 

That he asked and that he got, — nothing more. 



Name and deed alike are lost : 
Not a pillar nor a post 

In his Croisic keeps aHve the feat as it befell; 
Not a head in white and black 
On a single fishing smack. 
In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack 

All that France saved from the fight whence England bore 
the bell. 
Go to Paris: rank on rank 

Search the heroes flung pell-mell 
On the Louvre, face and flank! 

You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. 
So, for better and for worse, 
Herve Riel, accept my verse! 
In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more 
Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife the Belle 
Aurore ! 

PHEIDIPPIDES 

Xaipere, viKufxev 

First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock! 
Gods of my birthplace, daemons and heroes, honor to all! 
Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise 
— Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the aegis and spear! 
Also, ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your peer. 



Pheidippides 231 

Now, henceforth and forever, — O Latest to whom I upraise 
Hand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and 

flock! 
Present to help, potent to save. Pan — patron I call! 

Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return! 
See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no spectre that speaks! 
Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and 

you, 
"Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid! 
Persia has come, we are here, where is She?" Your command 

I obeyed, 
Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs through, 
Was the space between city and city: two days, two nights did 

I burn 
Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks. 
Into their midst I broke: breath served but for "Persia has 

come! 
Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth; 
Razed to the ground is Eretria — but Athens, shall Athens 

sink. 
Drop into dust and die — the flower of Hellas utterly die, 
Die, with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the 

standcr-by? 
Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o'er 

destruction's brink? 
How, — when? No care for my limbs! — there's lightning in all 

and some — 
Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth! " 

O my Athens — Sparta love thee? Did Sparta respond? 
Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust, 
Malice, — each ej'e of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate! 
Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I 

stood 
Quivering, — the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from 

dry wood: 



232 Robert Brov/ning 

"Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate? 
Thunder, thou Zeus! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyond 
Swing of thy spear? Phoibos and Artemis, clang them 'Ye 
must'!" 

No bolt launched from Olumpos! Lo, their answer at last! 
"Has Persia come, — does Athens ask aid, — may Sparta be- 
friend? 
Nowise precipitate judgment — too weighty the issue at stake! 
Count we no time lost time which lags through respect to the 

gods! 
Ponder that precept of old, 'No warfare, whatever the odds 
In your favor, so long as the moon, half -orbed, is unable to take 
Full-circle her state in the sky ! ' Already she rounds to it fast : 
Athens must wait, patient as we — ^who judgment suspend." 

Athens, — except for that sparkle, — thy name, I had mouldered 

to ash! 
That sent a blaze through my blood; off, off and away was I 

back, 
— Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the 

vile! 
Yet "O gods of my land!" I cried, as each hillock and plain, 
Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past them again, 
"Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you 

erewhile? 
Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation! Too rash 
Love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack! 

"Oak and olive and bay, — I bid you cease to enwreathe 
Brows made bold by your leaf! Fade at the Persian's foot, 
You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave! 
Rather I hail thee, Parnes, — trust to thy wild waste tract! 
Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain! What matter if slacked 
My speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to cave 
No deity deigns to drape with verdure? at least I can breathe. 
Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute!" 



Pheidippides 233 

Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge; 
Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden, a bar 
Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. 
Right! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across: 
"Where I could enter, there I depart by! Night in the fosse? 
Athens to aid? Though the dive were through Erebos, thus I 

obey — 
Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise! No bridge 
Better!" — when — ha! what was it I came on, of wonders that 

are? 

There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he — majestical Pan! 

Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head; moss cushioned his hoof: 

All the great god was good in the eyes grave-kindly — the curl 

Carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe, 

As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw. 

"Halt, Pheidippides!" — halt I did, my brain of a whirl: 

" Hither to me ! Why pale in my presence? " he gracious began : 

"How is it, — Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof? 

"Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast! 
Wherefore? Than I what godship to Athens more helpful of 

old? 
Ay, and still, and forever her friend! Test Pan, trust me! 
Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith 
In the temples and tombs! Go, say to Athens, 'The Goat-God 

saith: 
When Persia — so much as strews not the soil — is cast in the sea. 
Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and 

least. 
Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and 

the bold!' 

"Say Pan saith: 'Let this, foreshowing the place, be the 

pledge!'" 
(Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear 
—Fennel — I grasped it a-tremble with dew — whatever it bode) 



234 Robert Browning 

"While, as for thee" . . . But enough! He was gone. If I 

ran hitherto — 
Be sure that, the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew. 
Fames to Athens — earth no more, the air was my road: 
Here am I.back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's 

edge! 
Pan for Athens, Pan for me! I too have a guerdon rare! 

Then spoke Miltiades. "And thee, best runner of Greece, 
Whose limbs did duty indeed,- — what gift is promised thyself? 
Tell it us straightway, — Athens the mother demands of her 

son!" 
Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, hfting at length 
His eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of 

his strength 
Into the utterance — " Pan spoke thus: ' For what thou hast done 
Count on a worthy reward ! Henceforth be allowed thee release 
From the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!' 

"I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my 

mind! 
Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may 

grow, — 
Pound — Pan helping us — Persia to dust, and, under the deep, 
Whelm her away forever; and then, — no Athens to save, — 
Marry a certain maid, I knov/ keeps faith to the brave, — 
Hie to my house and home: and, when my children shall 

creep 
Close to my knees, — recount how the god was awful yet kind, 
Promised their sire reward to the full — rewarding him — so!" 

Unforeseeing one! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day: 
So, when Persia was dust, all cried "To Akropolis! 
Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due! 
'Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout!" He flung down his 

shield, 
Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennelfield 



Cavalier Tunes 235 

And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through, 
Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!" Like wine through 

clay, 
Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died — the bliss! 

So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute 
Is still "Rejoice!" — his word which brought rejoicing indeed. 
So is Pheidippides happy forever, — the noble strong man 
Who covdd race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god 

loved so well ; 
He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered 

to tell 
Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began, 
So to end gloriously — once to shout, thereafter be mute: 
"Athens is saved!" — Pheidippides dies in the shout for his 

meed. 



CAVALIER TUNES 

I — MARCHING ALONG 

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, 

Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing: 

And, pressing a troop unable to stoop, 

And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop. 

Marched them along, fifty-score strong. 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song 

God for King Charles! P>tti and such carles 

To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous paries! 

Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup, 

Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup 

Till you're — 

Chorus. — Marching along, fifty-score strong, 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. 



236 Robert Browning 

Hampton to hell, and his obsequies' knell. 
Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well! 
England, good cheer! Rupert is near! 
Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, 

Chorus^'— Marching along, fifty-score strong, 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song? 

Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls 
To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! 
Hold by the right, you double your might; 
So, onward to Nottingham, fresh from the fight, 

Chorus. — March we along, fifty-score strong, 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song! 

II — GIVE A ROUSE 

King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, 
King Charles! 

Who gave me the goods that went since? 
Who raised me the house that sank once? 
Who helped me to gold I spent since? 
Who found me in wine you drank once? 

Cho. — King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now. 
King Charles! 

To whom used my boy George quaft" else. 
By the old fool's side that begot him? 
For whom did he cheer and laugh else. 
While Noll's damned troopers shot him? 



My Last Duchess 237 

Cho.— King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, 
King Charles! 

in — BOOT AND SADDLE 

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! 
Rescue my castle before the hot day 
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray. 

C//0.— Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! 

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; 
Many's the friend there, will listen and pray 
"God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay— 

C//0.— Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" 

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, 

Flouts Castle Branccpeth the Roundheads' array : 

Who laughs, " Good fellows ere this, by my fay, 

C//0.— Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" 

Who? My wife Gertrude, that, honest and gay, 
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, " Nay! 
I've better counsellors; what counsel they? 

C//0.— Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" 



MY LAST DUCHESS 

Ferrara 

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, 
Looking as if she were alive. I call 
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands 
Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 



238 Robert Browning 

Will't please you sit and look at her? I said 

"Fra Pandolf " by design, for never read 

Strangers like you that pictured countenance. 

The depth and passion of its earnest glance, 

But to myself they turned (since none puts by 

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, 

How such a glance came there; so, not the first 

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not 

Her husband's presence only, called that spot 

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps 

Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps 

Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint 

Must never hope to reproduce the faint 

Half -flush that dies along her throat": such stuff 

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 

For calling up that spot of joy. She had 

A heart — how shall I say? — too soon made glad. 

Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er 

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 

Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast. 

The dropping of the daylight in the West, 

The bough of cherries some officious fool 

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule 

She rode with round the terrace — aU and each 

Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 

Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good! but thanked 

Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked 

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name 

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame 

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill 

In speech — (which I have not)— to make your will 

Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this 

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, 

Or there exceed the mark" — and if she let 

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 



Tray 239 

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, 

— E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose 

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, 

Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without 

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; 

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands 

As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet 

The company below, then. I repeat, 

The Count your master's known munificence 

Is ample warrant that no just pretense 

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; 

Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed 

At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go 

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, 

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity. 

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me ! 



TRAY 

Sing me a hero ! Quench my thirst 
Of soul, ye bards! 

Quoth Bard the first: 
"Sir Olaf, the good knight, did don 
His helm and eke his habergeon " . . . 
Sir Olaf and his bard — ! 

"That sin-scathed brow" (quoth Bard the second), 
"That eye wide ope as though Fate beckoned 
My hero to some steep, beneath 
Which precipice smiled tempting death " . . . 
You too without your host have reckoned! 

"A beggar-child" (let's hear this third!) 
"Sat on a quay's edge: like a bird 
Sang to herself at careless play. 
And fell into the stream. 'Dismay! 
Help, you the standers-by!' None stirred. 



240 Robert Browning 

"Bystanders reason, think of wives 
And children ere they risk their lives. 
Over the balustrade has bounced 
A mere instinctive dog, and pounced 
Prumb on the prize. 'How well he dives! 

"'Up he comes with the child, see, tight 
In mouth, alive too, clutched from quite 
A depth of ten feet — twelve, I bet! 
Good dog! What, off again? There's yet 
Another child to save? All right! 

"'How strange we saw no other fall! 
It's instinct in the animal. 
Good dog! But he's a long while under: 
If he got drowned I should not wonder — 
Strong current, that against the wall! 

" ' Here he comes, holds in mouth this time 

— What may the thing be? Well, that's prime! 

Now, did you ever? Reason reigns 

In man alone, since all Tray's pains 

Have fished — the child's doll from the slime!' 

"And so, amid the laughter gay, 
Trotted my hero off, — old Tray,— 
Till somebody, prerogatived 
With reason, reasoned: 'Why he dived, 
His brain would show us, I should say. 

"'John, go and catch— or, if needs be, 

Purchase — that animal for me! 

By vivisection, at expense 

Of half-an-hour and eighteenpence. 

How brain secretes dog's soul, we'll see!'" 






Muleykeh 241 



MULEYKEH 

If a stranger passed the tent of Hoseyn, he cried "A churl's!" 
Or haply " God help the man who has neither salt nor bread! " 
— "Nay," would a friend exclaim, "he needs nor pity nor scOrn 
More than who spends small thought on the shore-sand, picking 

pearls. 
Holds but in light esteem the seed-sort, bears instead 
On his breast a moon-like prize, some orb which of night makes 

morn. 

"What if no flocks and herds enrich the son of Sinan? 

They went when his tribe was mulct, ten thousand camels the 

due. 
Blood-value paid perforce for a murder done of old. 
' God gave them, let them go! But never since time began, 
Muleykeh, peerless mare, owned master the match of you, 
And you are my prize, my Pearl: I laugh at men's land and 

gold!' 

" So in the pride of his soul laughs Hoseyn — and right, I say. 
Do the ten steeds run a race of glory? Outstripping all. 
Ever Muleykeh stands first steed at the victor's staff. 
Who started, the owner's hope, gets shamed and named, that 

day. 
'Silence,' or, last but one, is 'The Cuffed,' as we use to call 
Whom the paddock's lord thrusts forth. Right, Hoseyn, I say, 

to laugh!" 

" Boasts he Muleykeh the Pearl? " the stranger replies: "Be sure 

On him I waste nor scorn nor pity, but lavish both 

On Duhl the son of Sheyban, who withers away in heart 

For envy of Hoseyn's luck. Such sickness admits no cure. 

A certain poet has sung, and sealed the same with an oath, 

' For the vulgar — flocks and herds ! The Pearl is a prize apart. ' " 



242 Robert Browning 

Lo, Duhl the son of Sheyban comes riding to Hoseyn's tent, 
And he casts his saddle down, and enters and " Peace! " bids he. 
"You are poor, I know the cause: my plenty shall mend the 

wrong. 
'Tis said of your Pearl — the price of a hundred camels spent 
In her purchase were scarce ill paid: such prudence is far from 

me 
Who proffer a thousand. Speak! Long parley may last too 

long." 

Said Hoseyn, "You feed young beasts a many, of famous breed. 
Slit-eared, unblemished, fat, true offspring of Muzennem: 
There stumbles no weak-eyed she in the line as it climbs the 

hiU. 
But I love Muleykeh's face: her forefront whitens indeed 
Like a yellowish wave's cream-crest. Your camels — go gaze 

on them! 
Her fetlock is foam-splashed too. Myself am the richer still." 

A year goes by: lo, back to the tent again rides Duhl. 
"You are open-hearted, ay — moist-handed, a very prince. 
Why should I speak of sale? Be the mare your simple gift! 
My son is pined to death for her beauty: my wife prompts 

'Fool, 
Beg for his sake the Pearl! Be God the rewarder, since 
God pays debts seven for one: who squanders on Him shows 

thrift.'" 

Said Hoseyn, " God gives each man one life, like a lamp, then 

gives 
That lamp due measure of oil: lamp lighted — hold high, wave 

wide 
Its comfort for others to share! once quench it, what help is 

left? 
The oil of your lamp is your son: I shine while Muleykeh lives. 
Would I beg your son to cheer my dark if Muleykeh died? 
It is life against life: what good avails to the life-bereft?" 



Muleykeh 243 

Another year, and — hist! What craft is it Duhl designs? 
He alights not at the door of the tent as he did last time, 
But, creeping behind, he gropes his stealthy way by the trench 
Half-round till he finds the flap in the folding, for night com- 
bines 
With the robber — and such is he: Duhl, covetous up to crime, 
Must wTing from Hoseyn's grasp the Pearl, by whatever the 
wrench. 

"He was hunger-bitten, I heard: I tempted with half my store. 
And a gibe was all my thanks. Is he generous like Spring 

dew? 
Account the fault to me who chaffered with such an one ! 
He has killed, to feast chance comers, the creature he rode: nay, 

more — 
For a couple of singing-girls his robe has he torn in two: 
I will beg! Yet I nowise gained by the tale of my wife and 

son. 

"I swear by the Holy House, my head will I never wash 
Till I filch his Pearl away. Fair dealing I tried, then guile, 
And now I. resort to force. He said we must live or die: 
Let him die, then, — let me live! Be bold — but not too rash! 
I have found me a peeping-place: breast, bury your breathing 

while 
I explore for myself! Now, breathe! He deceived me not, the 

spy! 

"As he said — there lies in peace Hoseyn — how happy! Beside 
Stands tethered the Pearl: thrice winds her headstall about his 

wrist: 
'Tis therefore he sleeps so sound — the moon through the roof 

reveals. 
And, loose on his left, stands too that other, known far and 

wide, 
Buheyseh, her sister born: fleet is she yet ever missed 
The winning tail's lire-flash a-stream past the thimderous heels. 



244 Robert Browning 

"No less she stands saddled and bridled, this second, in case 

some thief 
Should enter and seize and fly with the first, as I mean to do. 
What then? The Pearl is the Pearl: once mount her we both 

escape." 
Through the skirt-fold in glides Duhl, — so a serpent disturbs 

no leaf 
In a bush as he parts the twigs entwining a nest: clean through, 
He is noiselessly at his work: as he planned, he performs the 

rape. 

He has set the tent-door wide, has buckled the girth, has clipped 
The headstall away from the wrist he leaves thrice bound as 

before. 
He springs on the Pearl, is launched on the desert like bolt from 

bow. 
Up starts our plundered man : from his breast though the heart 

be ripped. 
Yet his mind has the mastery: behold, in a minute more, 
He is out and off and away on Buheyseh, whose worth we know! 

And Hoseyn — his blood turns flame, he has learned long since 

to ride, 
And Buheyseh does her part, — they gain — they are gaining fast 
On the fugitive pair, and Duhl has Ed-Darraj to cross and quit. 
And to reach the ridge El-Saban, — no safety till that be spied! 
And Buheyseh is, bound by bound, but a horse-length off at 

last, 
For the Pearl has missed the tap of the heel, the touch of the bit. 

She shortens her stride, she chafes at her rider the strange and 

queer: 
Buheyseh is mad with hope — beat sister she shall and must. 
Though Duhl, of the hand and heel so clumsy, she has to thank. 
She is near now, nose by tail — they are neck by croup — joy! 

fear! 



Muleykeh 245 

What folly makes Hoseyn shout "Dog Duhl, damned son of 

the Dust, 
Touch the right ear, and press with your foot my Pearl's left 

flank!" 



And Duhl was wise at the word, and Muleykeh as prompt 

perceived 
Who was urging redoubled pace, and to hear him was to obey. 
And a leap indeed gave she, and evanished forevermore. 
And Hoseyn looked one long last look as who, all bereaved, 
Looks, fain to follow the dead so far as the living may: 
Then he turned Buheyseh's neck slow homeward, weeping sore. 

And, lo, in the sunrise, still sat Hoseyn upon the ground 
Weeping: and neighbors came, the tribesmen of Benu-Asad 
In the vale of green Er-Rass, and they questioned him of his 

grief; 
And he told from first to last how, serpent-like, Duhl had 

wound 
His way to the nest, and how Duhl rode like an ape, so bad! 
And how Buheyseh did wonders, yet Pearl remained with the 

thief. 

And they jeemd him, one and all: "Poor Hoseyn is crazed past 

hope! 
How else had he wrought himself his ruin, in fortune's spite? 
To have simply held the tongue were a task for looy or girl, 
And here were Muleykeh again, the eyed like an antelope, 
The child of his heart by day, the wife of his breast by night! " — 
"And the beaten in speed!" wept Hoseyn. "You never have 

loved my Pearl." 



246 Robert Browning 



THE YEAR'S AT THE SPRING 

From " Pippa Passes " 

The year's at the spring, 
" >^ And day's at the morn ; 
Morning's at seven; 
The hill-side's dew-pearled; 
The lark's on the wing; 
The snail's on the thorn; 
God's in His Heaven — 
All's right with the world! 



EPILOGUE 

From "Asolando " 

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, 

When you set your fancies free, 
Will they pass to where — by death, fools think, impris- 
oned — 
Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so, 
—Pity me? 

Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken! 

What had I on earth to do 
With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? 
Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel 
— Being — who? 

One who never turned his back but marched breast forward, 

Never doubted clouds would break, 
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would 

triumph. 
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to light better, 
Sleep to wake. 



Prospice 247 

No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time 

Greet the unseen with a cheer! 
Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be, 
"Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed, — fight on, fare ever 
There as here!" 



PROSPICE 

Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat. 

The mist in my face, 
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 

I am nearing the place, 
The power of the night, the press of the storm. 

The post of the foe; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form. 

Yet the strong man must go: 
For the journey is done and the summit attained, 

And the barriers fall, 
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, 

The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more. 

The best and the last! 
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore; 

And bade me creep past. 
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare Uke my peers 

The heroes of old, 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad Ufe's arrears 

Of pain, darkness and cold. 
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, 

The black minute's at end. 
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave. 

Shall dwindle, shall blend, 
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 

Then a light, then thy breast, 
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again. 

And with God be the rest! 



248 Edward Lear 

EDWARD LEAR 

181 2, London-San Remo, Italy, 1888 
THE JUMBLIES 

They went to sea in a sieve, they did; 

In a sieve they went to sea; 
In spite of all their friends could say, ' 

On a winter's morn, on a stormy day, 

In a sieve they went to sea. 
And when the sieve turned round and round. 
And every one cried, "You'll all be drowned!" 
They called aloud, "Our sieve ain't big; 
But we don't care a button; we don't care a fig: 
In a sieve we'll go to sea!" 
Far and few, far and few, 

Are the lands where the Jumblies live: 
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; 
And they went to sea in a sieve. 

They sailed away in a sieve, they did, 

In a sieve they sailed so fast, 
With only a beautiful pea-green veil 
Tied with a ribbon, by way of a sail, 

To a small tobacco-pipe mast. 
And every one said who saw them go, 
"Oh! won't they be soon upset, you know? 
For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long; 
And, happen what may, it's extremely wrong 

In a sieve to sail so fast." 

The water it soon came in, it did; 

The water it soon came in: 
So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet 
In a pinky paper all folded neat: 

And they fastened it down with a pin. 



The Jumblies 249 

And they passed the night in a crockery-jar; 
And each of them said, "How wise we are! 
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long. 
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong. 
While round in our sieve we spin." 

And all night long they sailed away; 

And, when the sun went down, 
They whistled and warbled a moony song 
To the echoing sound of a coppery gong, 

In the shade of the mountains brown, 
"OTimballoo! How happy we are 
When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar! 
And all night long, in the moonlight pale. 
We sail away with a pea-green sail 

In the shade of the mountains brown." 

They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,— 

To a land all covered with trees: 
And they bought an owl, and a useful cart. 
And a pound of rice, and a cranberry-tart. 

And a hive of silvery bees; 
And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws, 
And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws. 
And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree, 

And no end of Stilton cheese: 

And in twenty years they all came back, — 

In twenty years or more; 
And every one said, "How tall they've grown! 
For they've been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone, 

And the hills of the Chankly Bore." 
And they drank their health, and gave them a feast 
Of dumphngs made of beautiful yeast; 
And every one said, "If we only live, 
We, too, will go to sea in a sieve, 



250 Edward Lear 

To the hills of the Chankly Bore." 
Far and few, far and few, 

Are the lands where the Jumblies live: 
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; 
And they went to sea in a sieve. 



THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT 

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea 

In a beautiful pea-green boat: 
They took some honey, and plenty of money 

Wrapped up in a five-pound note. 
The Owl looked up to the stars above, 

And sang to a small guitar, 
"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, 

What a beautiful Pussy you are, 
You are, 
You are! 

What a beautiful Pussy you are!" 

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl. 

How charmingly sweet you sing! 
Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried: 

But what shall we do for a ring? " 
They sailed away, for a year and a day. 

To the land where the bong- tree grows; 
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood. 

With a ring at the end of his nose, 
His nose. 
His nose. 
With a ring at the end of his nose. 

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling 
Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." 

So they took it away, and were married next day 
By the Turkey who lives on the hill. 



Say Not, the Struggle Naught Availeth 251 

They dined on mince and slices of quince, 
Which they ate with a runcible spoon; 
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, 
They danced by the hght of the moon, 
The moon. 
The moon, 
They danced by the Hght of the moon. 



A LIMERICK 

There was an Old Man in a tree. 
Who was horribly bored by a bee ; 
When they said, "Does it buzz?' 
He repUed, "Yes, it does! 
It's a regular brute of a bee!" 



ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 

1819, Liverpool-Florence, 1861 

SAY NOT, THE STRUGGLE NAUGHT AVAILETH 

Say not, the struggle naught availeth. 
The labor and the wounds are vain, 

The enemy faints not, nor faileth. 
And as things have been they remain. 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be Uars; 

It may be, in yon smoke concealed, 
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers. 

And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 

Seem here no painful inch to gain, 
Far back, through creeks and inlets making. 

Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 



252 Arthur Hugh Clough 

And not by eastern windows only, 

When daylight conies, comes in the light; 

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 
But westward, look, the land is bright. 



QUA CURSUM VENTUS 

As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
With canvas drooping, side by side, 

.Two towers of sail at dawn of day 
Are scarce long leagues apart descried; 

When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, 
And all the darlding hours they plied, 

Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
By each was cleaving, side by side : 

E'en so, — but why the tale reveal 

Of those, whom year by year unchanged. 

Brief absence joined anew to feel 

Astounded, soul from soul estranged? 

At dead of night their sails were filled. 
And onward each rejoicing steered — 

Ah, neither blame, for neither willed 
Or wist, what first with dawn appeared! 

To veer, how vain! On, onward strain. 
Brave barks! In light, in darkness too. 

Through winds and tides one compass guides, 
To that and your own selves be true. 

But O blithe breeze, and O great seas. 
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past. 

On your wide plain they join again, 
Together lead them home at last. 



Young and Old 253 

One port, methought, alike they sought, 
One purpose hold where'er they fare, — 

O bounding breeze, O rushing seas! 
At last, at last, unite them there! 



CHARLES KINGSLEY 

1819, Devonshire-Hampshire, 1875 
YOUNG AND OLD 

From " The Water Babies " 

When aU the world is young, lad, 

And all the trees are green; 
And every goose a swan, lad, 

And every lass a queen; 
Then hey for boot and horse, lad, 

And round the world away; 
Young blood must have its course, lad, 

And every dog his day. 

When all the world is old, lad, 

And aU the trees are brown; 
And all the sport is stale, lad, 

And all the wheels run down: 
Creep home, and take your place there. 

The spent and maimed among: 
God grant you find one face there 

You loved when aU was young. 



254 Matthew Arnold 

FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON 

1821, Greenwich- Rowfant, 1895 

""^ A TERRIBLE INFANT 

I RECOLLECT a iiurse called Ann, 
Who carried me about the grass, 

And one fine day a fine young man 
Came up, and kissed the pretty lass: 

She did not make the least objection! 
Thinks I, "Aha! 
When I can talk, I'll tell Mamma." 

— ^And that's my earliest recollection. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 

1822, Middlesex-Liverpool, 1888 

SHAKSPERE 

Others abide our question. Thou art free. 

We ask and ask — Thou smilest and art still. 

Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill. 

Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty, 

Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, 

Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place. 

Spares but the cloudy border of his base 

To the foiled searching of mortaUty; 

And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, 

Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honored, self-secure, 

Didst tread on earth unguessed at. — Better so! 

All pains the immortal spirit must endure. 

All weakness which impairs, aU griefs which bow, 

Find their sole speech in that victorious brow. 



Self-Dependence 255 



REQUIESCAT 

Strew on her roses, roses, 
And never a spray of yew! 

In quiet she reposes: 

Ah I would that I did too. 

Her mirth the world required : 
She bathed it in smiles of glee. 

But her heart was tired, tired, 
And now they let her be. 

Her life was turning, turning. 
In mazes of heat and sound. 

But for peace her soul was yearning, 
And now peace laps her round. 

Her cabined, ample Spirit, 

It fluttered and failed for breath. 

To-night it doth inherit 
The vasty hall of Death. 



SELF-DEPENDENCE 

Weary of myself, and sick of asking 
What I am, and what I ought to be, 
At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me 
Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea. 

And a look of passionate desire 

O'er the sea and to the stars I send: 

" Ye who from my childhood up have calmed me, 

Calm me, ah, compose me to the end! 

"Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters, 
On my heart your mighty charm renew; 
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you. 
Feel my soul becoming vast like you!" 



256 Coventry Patmore 

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, 
Over the lit sea's unquiet way, 
In the rustling night-air came the answer: 
"Wouldst thou he as these are? Live as they. 

" Unaff righted by the silence round them, 
Undistracted by the sights they see. 
These demand not that the things without them 
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. 

"And with J03' the stars perform their shining, 
And the sea its long moon-silvered roll; 
For self -poised they live, nor pine with noting 
All the fever of some differing soul. 

"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful 
In what state God's other works may be, 
In their own tasks all their powers pouring, 
These attain the mighty Ufe you see." 

O air-born voice! long since, severely clear, 
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear: 
"Resolve to be thyself; and know, that he 
Who finds himself, loses his misery!" 



COVENTRY PATMORE 

1823, Warwickshire-Hampshire, 1896 
THE TOYS 

My little Son, who looked from thoughtful eyes 

And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, 

Having my law the seventh time disobeyed, 

I struck him, and dismissed 

With hard words and unkissed, 

— His Mother, who was patient, being dead. 



The Toys 257 

Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, 

I visited his bed, 

But found him slumbering deep. 

With darkened ej^elids, and their lashes yet 

From his late sobbing wet. 

And I, with moan. 

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; 

For, on a table drawn beside his head, 

He had put, within his reach, 

A box of counters and a red-veined stone, 

A piece of glass abraded by the beach. 

And six or seven shells, 

A bottle with bluebells. 

And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art, 

To comfort his sad heart. 

So when that night I prayed 

To God, I wept, and said: 

Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath. 

Not vexing Thee in death, 

And Thou rememberest of what toys 

We made our joys. 

How weakly understood 

Thy great commanded good, 

Then, fatherly not less 

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, 

Thou'lt leave Thy WTath, and say, 

" I will be sorry for their childishness." 



258 Charles Stuart Calverley 

THOMAS EDWARD BROWN 

1S30, Isle of Man-Isle of Man, 1897 
MY GARDEN 

A GARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot! 
Rose plot. 

Fringed pool, 
Ferned grot — 
The veriest school 
Of peace ; and yet the fool 
Contends that God is not — 
Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool? 
Nay, but I have a sign : 
'Tis very sure God walks in mine. 

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY 

1 83 1, Worcestershire-London, 1884 
THE ALPHABET 

A IS an Angel of blushing eighteen ; 

B is the Ball where the Angel was seen; 

C is the Chaperon, who cheated at cards; 

D is the Deuxtemps with Frank of the Guards; 

E is the Eye, killing slowly but surely; 

F is the Fan whence it peeped so demurely; 

G is the Glove of superlative kid; 

H is the Hand which it spitefully hid; 

I is the Ice which the fair one demanded; 

J is the Juvenile that dainty who handed; 
K is the Kerchief, a rare work of art; 
L is the Lace which composed the chief part ; 
M is the old Maid who watched the chits dance ; 
N is the Nose she turned up at each glance; 



Jabberwocky 259 

O is the Olga (just then in its prime); 
P is the Partner who wouldn't keep time; 
Q is a Quadrille put instead of the Lancers; 
R is the Remonstrances made by the dancers; 
S is the Supper where all went in pairs; 
T is the Twaddle they talked on the stairs; 
U is the Uncle who "thought we'd be goin'"; 

V is the Voice which his niece repHed " No" in; 
W is the Waiter who sat up till eight ; 

X is the exit, not rigidly straight; 

Y is the Yawning fit caused by the Ball; 
Z stands for Zero, or nothing at all. 



LEWIS CARROLL (CHARLES L. DODGSON) 

1 8,5 2, Daresbury- Surrey, iSq8 
JABBERWOCKY 

From " Through the Looking Glass " 

'Twas brilHg, and the slithy toves 

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; 
All mimsy were the borogoves, 

And the mome raths outgrabe. 

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! 

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! 
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun 

The frumious Bandersnatch!" 



He took his vorpal sword in hand: 

Long time the manxome foe he sought. — 

So rested he by the Tumtum tree, 
And stood awhile in thought. 



26o Lewis Carroll 

And as in uflish thought he stood, 
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, 

Came whiffing through the tulgey wood, 
And burbled as it came ! 

One, two! One, two! And through and through 
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! 

He left it dead, and with its head 
He went galumphing back. 

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? 

Come to my arms, my beamish boy! 
frabjous day ! Callooh ! Callay ! ' ' 

He chortled in his joy. 

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; 

All mimsy were the borogoves. 
And the mome raths outgrabe. 



THE GARDENER'S SONG 

From " Sylvie and Bruno " 

He thought he saw an Elephant, 

That practised on a fife : 
He looked again, and found it was 

A letter from his wife. 
"At length I realize," he said, 

"The bitterness of life!" 

He thought he saw a Buffalo 

Upon the chimney-piece: 
He looked again, and found it was 

His Sister's Husband's Niece. 
"Unless you leave this house," he said, 

"I'll send for the Police!" 



The Gardener's Song 261 

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake 

That questioned him in Greek: 
He looked again, and found it was 

The Middle of Next Week. 
"The one thing I regret," he said, 

"Is that it cannot speak!" 

He thought he saw a Banker's Clerk 

Descending from the 'bus: 
He looked again, and found it was 

A Hippopotamus. 
"If this- should stay to dine," he said, 

"There won't be much for us!" 

He thought he saw a Kangaroo 

That worked a coffee-mill: 
He looked again, and found it was 

A Vegetable-Pill. 
"Were I to swallow this," he said, 

"I should be very ill!" 

He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four 

That stood beside his bed: 
He looked again, and found it was 

A Bear without a Head. 
"Poor thing," he said, "poor silly thing! 

It's waiting to be fed!" 



He thought he saw an Albatross 
That fluttered round the lamp: 

He looked again, and found it was 
A Penny-Postage-Stamp. 

"You'd best be getting home," he said: 
"The nights are very damp!" 

He thought he saw a Garden Door 
That opened with a key: 



262 Edward Bowen 

He looked again, and found it was 
A Double-Rule-of-Three: 

"And all its mystery," he said, 
"Is clear as day to me!" 

"""GEORGE DU MAURIER 

1834, Paris-London, 1896 
A LITTLE WORK 

From " Trilby " 

A LITTLE work, a little play 

To keep us going — and so, good-day! 

A little warmth, a little light 

Of love's bestowing — and so, good-night I 

A little fun, to match the sorrow 

Of each day's growing — and so, good-morrow! 

A little trust that when we die 

We reap our sowing! And so — good-bye! 

EDWARD BOWEN 

1836, Gloucestershire-Cote d'Or, France, 1901 

FORTY YEARS ON 

Forty years on, when afar and asunder 

Parted are those who are singing today, 
When you look back, and forgetfully wonder 

What you were like in your work and your play 
Then, it may be, there will often come o'er you 

Glimpses of notes like the catch of a song — 
Visions of boyhood shall float them before you, 

Echoes of dreamland shall bear them along. 



Forty Years On 263 

REFHAIN 

Follow up! Follow up! Follow up! Follow up I 
Till the field ring again and again, 
With the tramp of the twenty-two men, 
Follow up! Follow up! 

Routs and discomfitures, rushes and rallies. 

Bases attempted, and rescued, and won, 
Strife without anger, and art without malice, — 

How will it seem to you forty years on? 
Then, you will say, not a feverish minute 

Strained the weak heart, and the wavering knee, 
Never the battle raged hottest, but in it 

Neither the last nor the faintest were we! 

O the great days, in the distance enchanted. 

Days of fresh air, in the rain and the sun, 
How we rejoiced as we struggled and panted — 

Hardly believable, forty years on! 
How we discoursed of them, one with another, 

Auguring triumph, or balancing fate, 
Loved the ally with the heart of a brother. 

Hated the foe with a playing at hate! 

Forty years on, growing older and older, 

Shorter in wind, as in memory long, 
Feeble of foot and rheumatic of shoulder. 

What will it help you that once you were strong? 
God gives us bases to guard or beleaguer. 

Games to play out, whether earnest or fun. 
Fights for the fearless, and goals for the eager, 

Twenty, and thirty, and forty years on ! 



264 Edward Bowen 



JACK AND JOE 

Jack's a scholar, as all men say, 

Dreams in Latin and Greek, 
Gobbles a grammar in half a day, 

And a lexicon once a week; 
Three examiners came to Jack, 

"Tell to us all you know;" 
But when he began, "To Oxford back," 

They murmured, "we will go." 

But Joe is a regular fool, says Jack, 
And Jack is a fool, says Joe. 

Joe's a player, and no mistake. 

Comes to it born and bred. 
Dines in pads for the practice' sake. 

Goes with a bat to bed. 
Came the bowler and asked him, "Pray, 

Shall I bowl you fast or slow? " 
But the bowler's every hair was gray 

Before he had done with Joe. 

But Joe is a regular fool, &c. 

Morning wakes with a rousing spell. 

Bees and honey and hive, 
Drones get up at the warning bell, 

But Jack was at work at five. 
Sinks the day on the weary hill. 

Cricketers homeward flow; 
All climb up in the twilight chill, 

But the last to leave is Joe. 
But Joe is a regular fool, &c. 

"Fame," says Jack, "with the mind must go, 
Says Joe, "With the legs and back;" 

"What is the use of your arms?" says Joe, 
"Where are your brains?" says Jack. 



The Cure's Progress 265 

Says Joe, "Your Latin I truly hate," 

Says Jack, "I adore it so," 
"But your bats," says Jack, "I nowhere rate," 

"My darUngs," answers Joe. 

But Joe is a regular fool, &c. 

Can't you settle it, Joe and Jack, 

Settle it, books and play? 
Dunce is white and pedant is black. 

Haven't you room for gray? 
Let neither grammar nor bats be slack, 

Let brains with sinews grow, 
And you'll be Reverend Doctor Jack, 

And you'll be General Joe! 

But Joe is a regular fool, &c. 



AUSTIN DOBSON 

1840, Plymouth- 

THE CURE'S PROGRESS 

Monsieur the Cure down the street 

Comes with his kind old face, — - 
With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, 

And his green umbrella-case. 

You may see him pass by the httle " Grande Place,'" 

And the tiny " Hotel-de-Ville" ; 
He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose. 

And the pompier Theophile. 

He turns, as a rule, through the "Marche" cool. 

Where the noisy fish-wives call; 
And his compliment pays to the "Belle Therese," 

As she knits in her dusky stall. 



266 Austin Dobson 

There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop, 

And Toto, the locksmith's niece, 
Has jubilant hopes, for the Cure gropes 

In his tails for a pain d'epice. 

There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit, 

Who is said to be heterodox, 
That will ended be with a "Mafoi, oui!" 

And a pinch from the Cure's box. 

There is also a word that no one heard 

To the furrier's daughter Lou; 
And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red. 

And a "Bon Dieu garde M'sieu'!" 

But a grander way for the Sous-Prefct, 
And a bow for Ma'm'selle Anne; 

And a mock "off -hat" to the Notary's cat. 
And a nod to the Sacristan : — 

For ever through life the Cure goes 
With a smile on his kind old face — 

With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, 
And his green umbrella-case. 



URCEUS EXIT 

I INTENDED an Ode, 

And it turned to a Sonnet. 
It began a la mode, 
I intended an Ode; 
But Rose crossed the road 

In her latest new bonnet; 
I intended an Ode; 

And it turned to a Sonnet. 



The Burghers' Battle 267 



CHARLES GEORGE GORDON 

"Rather be dead than praised," he said, 
That hero, Uke a hero dead, 
In this slack-sinewed age endued 
With more than antique fortitude! 

"Rather be dead than praised! " Shall we, 
Who loved thee, now that Death sets free 
Thine eager soul, with word and line 
Profane that empty house of thine? 

Nay, — let us hold, be mute. Our pain 
Will not be less that we refrain; 
And this our silence shall but be 
A larger monument to thee. 



WILLIAM MORRIS 

1834, London-London, 1896 

THE BURGHERS' BATTLE 

Thick rise the spear-shafts o'er the land 
That erst the harvest bore; 
The sword is heavy in the hand, 
And wc return no more. 

The light wind waves the Ruddy Fox, 

Our banner of the war. 

And ripples in the Running Ox, 

A nd we rekirn no more. 

Across our stubble acres now 

The teams go four and four; 

But worn out elders guide the plough 

And we return no more. 



268 William Morris 

And now the women heavy-eyed 
Turn through the open door, 
From gazing down the highway wide 
Where we return no more. 

THb shadows of the fruited close 
Dapple the feast-hall floor; 
There lie our dogs and dream and doze, 
And we return no more. 

Down from the minster-tower to-day 
Fall the soft chimes of }^ore, 
Amidst the chattering jackdaws' play: 
And we return no more. 

But underneath the streets are still; 
Noon, and the market's o'er! 
Back go the good wives o'er the hill; 
For we return no more. 

What merchant to our gates shall come? 
What wise man bring us lore? 
What abbot ride away to Rome, 
Now we return no more? 

What Mayor shall rule the hall we built? 
Whose scarlet sweep the floor? 
What judge shall doom the robber's guilt, 
Now we return no more? 

New houses in the street shall rise 
Where builded we before, 
Of other stone, wrought otherwise; 
For we return no more. 

And crops shall cover field and hill 
Unlike what once they bore. 
And all be done without our will, 
Now we return no more. 



Home 269 



Look up! the arrows streak the sky, 
The horns of battle roar; 
The long spears lower and draw nigh, 
.1 nd we return no more. 

Remember how beside the wain, 
VV'e spoke the word of war, 
And sowed this harvest of the plain, 
.1 nd wc return no more. 

Lay spears about the Ruddy Fox ! 
The days of old are o'er; 
Heave sword about the Running Ox! 
For we return no more. 



WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY 

1849, Gloucester-Surrey, 1903 

HOME 

O, Falmouth is a fine town with ships in the bay, 
And I wish from my heart it's there I was to-day, 
I wish from my heart I was far away from here. 
Sitting in my parlor and talking to my dear. 
For it's home, dearie, home — it's home I want to be. 
Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea. 
O, the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree 
They're all growing green in the old countrie. 

In Baltimore a-walking a lady I did meet 
With her babe on her arm as she came down the street ; 
And I thought how I sailed, and the cradle standing ready 
For the pretty httle babe that has never seen its daddie. 
And it's home, dearie, home, — 



270 William Ernest Henley 

O, if it be a lass, she shall wear a golden ring; 
And if it be a lad, he shall fight for his king; 
With his dirk and his hat and his little jacket blue 
He shall walk the quarter-deck as his daddie used to do. 
And it'§^ home, dearie, home, — 

O, there's a wind a-biowing, a-blowing from the west, 
And that of all the winds is the one I like the best. 
For it blows at our backs, and it shakes our pennon free. 
And it soon will blow us home to the old countrie. 
For it's home, dearie, home — it's home I want to be. 
Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea. 
O, the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree 
They're all growing green in the old countrie. 



INVICTUS 

Out of the night that covers me. 
Black as the pit from pole to pole, 

I thank whatever gods may be 
For my unconquerable soul. 

In the fell clutch of circumstance 
I have not winced nor cried aloud. 

Under the bludgeonings of chance 
My head is bloody, but unbowed. 

Beyond this place of wrath and tears 
Looms but the Horror of the shade, 

And yet the menace of the years 
Finds and shall find me unafraid. 

It matters not how strait the gate, 

How charged with punishments the scroll, 

I am the master of my fate: 
I am the captain of my soul. 



A Lad that is Gone 271 

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

1S50, Edinburgh-Samoa, 1894 

A LAD THAT IS GONE 

Sing }}i€ a song of a lad that is gone; 

Say, could that lad be I? 
Merry of soid he sailed on a day 

Over the sea to Skye. 

Mull was astern, Rum on the port, 

Eigg on the starboard bow; 
Glory of youth glowed in his soul: 

Where is that glorj' now? 

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone; 

Say, coidd that lad be I? 
Merry of soul he sailed on a day 

Over the sea to Skye. 

Give me again all that was there, 

Give me the sun that shone! 
Give me the eyes, give me the soul. 

Give me the lad that's gone! 

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone; 

Say, coidd that lad be I? 
Merry of soul he sailed on a day 

Over the sea to Skye. 

Billow and breeze, islands and seas. 

Mountains of rain and sun, 
All that was good, all that was fair, 

Ail that was me is gone. 



272 Robert Louis Stevenson 



THE VAGABOND 

To an Air of Schubert 

Give to me the life I love, 

Let the lave go by me, 
Give the jolly heaven above 

And the byway nigh me. 
Bed in the bush with stars to see, 

Bread I dip in the river — 
There's the life for a man like me, 

There's the life for ever. 

Let the blow fall soon or late, 

Let what will be o'er me; 
Give the face of earth around 

And the road before me. 
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, 

Nor a friend to know me ; 
All I seek, the heaven above 

And the road below me. 



Or let autumn fall on me 
Where afield I linger, 

Silencing the bird on tree, 
Biting the blue finger. 

White as meal the frosty field- 
Warm the fireside haven — 

Not to autumn will I yield, 
Not to winter even! 

Let the blow fall soon or late. 
Let what will be o'er me; 

Give the face of earth around, 
And the road before me. 



Heather Ale 273 

Wealth I ask not, hope nor love, 

Nor a friend to know me; 
All I ask, the heaven above 

And the road below me. 



HEATHER ALE 

A GALLOWAY LEGEND 

From the bonny bells of heather 
They brewed a drink long-syne 
Was sweeter far than honey 
Was stronger far than wine. 
They brewed it and they drank it, 
And lay in blessed swound 
For days and days together 
In their dwellings underground. 

There rose a King in Scotland, 

A feU man to his foes, 

He smote the Picts in battle. 

He hunted them hke roes. 

Over miles of the red mountain 

He hunted as they feed. 

And strewed the dwarfish bodies 

Of the dying and the dead. 

Summer came in the country. 
Red was the heather beU: 
But the manner of the brewing 
None was aHve to teU. 
In graves that were Uke children's 
On many a mountain head 
The Brewsters of the Heather 
Lay numbered with the dead. 



274 Robert Loui-s Stevenson 

The King in the red moorland . 

Rode on a summer's day: 

And the bees hummed, and the curlews 

Cried beside the way. 

TJie King rode, and was angry, 

Black was his brow and pale, 

To rule in a land of heather 

And lack the Heather Ale. 



It fortuned that his vassals, 
Riding free on the heath, 
Came on a stone that was fallen 
And vermin hid beneath. 
Rudely plucked from their hiding, 
Never a word they spoke: 
A son and his aged father — 
Last of the dwarfish folk. 



The King sat high on his charger 
He looked on the little men; 
And the dwarfish and swarthy couple 
Looked at the King again 
Down by the shore he had them ; 
And there on the giddy brink — 
"I will give you life, ye vermin. 
For the secret of the drink." 



There stood the son and the father 
And they looked high and low: 
The heather was red around them, 
The sea rumbled below. 
And up and spoke the father. 
Shrill was his voice to hear: 
"I have a word in private, 
A word for the royal ear. 



Heather Ale 275 



"Life is dear lo the aged, 

And honour a little thing: 

I would gladly sell the secret", 

Quoth the Pict to the King. 

His voice was small as a sparrow's 

And shrill and wonderful clear; 

"I would gladly sell my secret, 

Only my son I fear. 

"For life is a little matter, 
And death is nought to the young: 
And I dare not sell my honour 
Under the eye of my son. 
Take him, O King, and bind him, 
And cast him far in the deep. 
And it's I will teU the secret 
That I have sworn to keep." 

They took the son and bound him. 

Neck and heels in a thong, 

And a lad took him and swung him. 

And flung him far and strong. 

And the sea swallowed his body, 

Like that of a child of ten: — 

And there on the cliff stood the father 

Last of the dwarfish men. 



"True was the word I told you: 
Only my son I feared: 
For I doubt the sapling courage 
That goes without the beard. 
But now in vain is the torture. 
Fire shall never avail: 
Here dies in my bosom 
The secret of Heather Ale." 



276 William Watson 



REQUIEM 

Under the wide and starry sky 
,Dig the grave and let me lie. 
Glad did I live and gladly die, 
And I laid me down with a will. 



This be the verse you grave for me : 
Here he lies where he longed to he; 
Home is the sailor, home from sea, 
And the hunter home from the hill. 



WILLIAM WATSON 

1858, Yorkshire 

THE KEY-BOARD 

FiVE-AND-THiRTY black slaves, 

Half-a-hundred white, 
All their duty but to sing 

For their Queen's deUght, 
Now with throats of thunder, 

Now with dulcet Ups, 
While she rules them royally 

With her finger-tips! 

When she quits her palace, 

All the slaves are diunb — 
Dumb with dolor till the Queen 

Back to Court is come: 
Dumb the throats of thunder, 

Dumb the dulcet lips. 
Lacking all the sovereignty 

Of her finger-tips. 



Going Down Hill on a Bicycle 277 

Dusky slaves and pallid, 

Ebon slaves and white, 
When the Queen was on her throne 

How you sang to-night! 
Ah, the throats of thunder! 

Ah, the dulcet lips! 
Ah, the gracious tyrannies 

Of her finger-tips! 

Silent, silent, silent. 

All your voices now; 
Was it then her life alone 

Did your life endow? 
Waken, throats of thunder! 

Waken, dulcet lips! 
Touched to immortality 

By her finger-tips. 



HENRY CHARLES BEECHING 

1859, London 

GOING DOWN HILL ON A BICYCLE 

A boy's song 

With lifted feet, hands still, 
I am poised, and down the hill 
Dart, with heedful mind; 
The air goes by in a wind. 

Swifter and yet more swift, 
Till the heart with a mighty lift 
Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry: — 
"O bird, see; see, bird, I fly. 

"Is this, is this your joy? 
O bird, then I, though a boy. 



2/8 Henry Newbolt 

For a golden moment share 
Your feathery life in air!" 

Say, heart, is there aught like this 
In a world that is full of bliss? 
■~ 'Tis more than skating, bound 
Steel-shod to the level ground. 

Speed slackens now, I float 
Awhile in my airy boat; 
Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, 
My feet to the treadles fall. 

Alas, that the longest hill 
Must end in a vale; but still, 
Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er, 
Shall find wings waiting there. 



HENRY NEWBOLT 

1S62, Staffordshire 



DRAKE'S DRUM 

Sir Francis Drake, i 540?-: 596 

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away, 

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?). 
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, 

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. 
Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships 

Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe, 
An' the shore-lights flashin*, an' the night-tide dashin', 

He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. 

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas 
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?). 



Vital Lampada 279 

Rovin' though his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease, 

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. 
"Take my drum to England, hang ct by the shore. 

Strike et when your powder's runnin' low; 
If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven, 

An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long 
ago." 

Drake he's in his hammock tiU the great Armadas come, 

(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?), 
Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, 

An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. 
Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, 

Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; 
Where the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag flyin'. 

They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long 
ago! 

VITAi LAMPADA 

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night — 

Ten to make and the match to win — 
A bumping pitch and a blinding light. 

An hour to play and the last man in. 
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat. 

Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, 
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote — 

'* Play up! play up! and play the game!" 

The sand of the desert is sodden red — 

Red with the wreck of a square that broke — 
The Catling's jammed with the Colonel dead. 

And the regiment blind with dust and smoke. 
The river of death has brimmed his banks. 

And England's far, and Honor a name, 
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks: 

"Play up! play up! and play the game!" 



28o Henry Newbolt 

This is the word that year by year, 

While in her place the School is set, 
Every one of her sons must hear, 

And none that hears it dare forget. 
This they all with a joyful mind 

^ear through life like a torch in flame, 
And falling fling to the host behind — 

"Play up! play up! and play the game!" 



CLIFTON CHAPEL 

This is the Chapel: here, my son, 

Your father thought the thoughts of youth. 
And heard the words that one by one 

The touch of Life has turned to truth. 
Here in a day that is not far. 

You too may speak with noble ghosts 
Of manhood and the vows of war 

You made before the Lord of Hosts. 

To set the cause above renown. 

To love the game beyond the prize. 
To honor, while you strike him down. 

The foe that comes with fearless eyes; 
To count the life of battle good, 

And dear the land that gave you birth, 
And dearer yet the brotherhood 

That binds the brave of all to earth — 

My son, the oath is yours: the end 

Is His, Who built the world of strife. 
Who gave His children Pain for friend. 

And Death for surest hope of life. 
To-day and here the fight's begun, 

Of the great fellowship you're free; 
Henceforth the School and you are one. 

And what You are, the race shall be. 



Fuzzy-wuzzy 281 

God send you fortune: yet be sure, 

Among the lights that gleam and pass, 
^'ou'U live to follow none more pure 

Than that which glows on yonder brass. 
"Qui procul hinc," the legend's writ — 

The frontier-grave is far away — 
"Qui ante diem periit: 

Sed miles, sed pro patria." 



RUDYARD KIPLING 

1865, Bonibay 

FUZZY-WUZZY 

Soudan Expeditionary Force, 1889 

We've fought with many men acrost the seas, 

An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not : 
The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese; 

But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot. 
We never got a ha' porth's change of 'im: 

'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses, 
'E cut our sentries up at Suakim, 

An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces. 

So 'ere's to 3'ou, Fuzzy -Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the 

Sowdan; 
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class 

fightin' man; 
We gives you your certifikit, an' if you want it signed 
We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever 
you're inclined. 

Wc took our chanst among the Kyber 'ills, 

The Boers knocked us silly at a mile, 
The Burman guv us Irriwaddy chills. 

An' a Zulu impi dished us up in style: 



282 Rudyard Kipling 

But all we ever got from such as they 

Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller; 
We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say, 

But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oiler. 

Th^n 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and 

the kid; 
Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went 

and did. 
We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly 

fair; 
But for all the odds again you, Fuzzy-Wuzz, you bruk 
the square. 

'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own, 

'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards, 
So we must certify the skill 'e's shown 

In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords: 
When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush 

With 'is coflfin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear, 
A 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush 

Will last a 'ealthy Tommy for a year. 

So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which 

is no more, 
If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you 

to deplore; 
But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bar- 
gain fair, 
For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up 
the square! 

'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive. 

An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead; 
'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive, 

An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead. 
'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb! 

'E's a injia-rubber idiot on a spree, 
'E's the only thing that doesn't care a damn 

For a Regiment o' British Infantree. 



A Ballad of East and West 283 

So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the 

Sowdan ; 
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-dass 

fightin' man; 
An' 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 

'ead of hair — 
You big black boundin' beggar — for you broke a 

British square. 



A BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST 

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, 
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; 
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, 
When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the 
ends of the earth! 

Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Borderside, 

And he has hfted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's 

pride : 
He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and 

the day. 
And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. 

Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the 

Guides : 
"Is there never a man of all my men can sav where Kamal 

hides?" 
Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar: 
"If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his 

pickets are. 

"At dusk he harries the Abazai — at dawn he is into Bonair, 
But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare, 
So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly. 
By the favor of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue 
of Jagai. 



284 Rudyard Kipling 

"But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye 

then, 
For the length and breadth of that grisly plain is sown with 

Kamal's men. 
There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean 

thorn between. 
And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen." 

The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was 

he, 
With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell and the head of 

the gallows-tree. 
The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to 

eat — 
Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his 

meat. 

He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly, 
Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue 

of Jagai, 
Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her 

back, 
And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol 

crack. 

He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball 

went wide. 
"Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said. "Show now if ye can 

ride." 
It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils 

go, 
The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren 
doe. 

The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, 
But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars as a lady plays 
with a glove. 



A Ballad of East and West 285 

There was rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean 

thorn between, 
And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a manw as 

seen. 

They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum 
up the dawn, 

The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new- 
roused fawn. 

The dun he fell at a water-course — in a woful heap fell he, 

And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider 
free. 

He has knocked the pistol out of his hand — small room was 

there to strive, 
" 'Twasonly by favorof mine," quothhe, "ye rode so long alive: 
There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of 

tree 
But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his 

knee. 

"If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low, 
The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row; 
If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, 
The kite that whistles above us now were gorged tiU she could 
not fly." 

Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "Do good to bird and beast, 
But count who come for the broken meats, before thou makest 

a feast. 
If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones 

away, 
Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could 

pay. 

"They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on 

the garnered grain, 
The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle 

are slain. 



286 Rudyard Kipling 

But if thou thinkest the price be fair — thy brethren wait to sup, 
The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn — howl, dog, and call 
them up. 

"And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer, and gear, 

and stack. 
Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way 

back!" 
Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. 
"No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and grey -wolf 

meet. 

"May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; 
What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with 

Death?" 
Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "I hold by the blood of my 

clan: 
Take up the mare for my father's gift — by God she has carried 

a man!" 

The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his 

breast; 
"We be two strong men," said Kamal then, "but she loveth 

the younger best. 
So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein, 
My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups 

twain." 

The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end, 

"Ye have taken the one from a foe," said he; "will ye take the 

mate from a friend?" 
" A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a limb for the risk 

of a hmb. 
Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him! " 

With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a 

mountain-crest — 
He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance 

in rest. 



A Ballad of East and West 287 

"Now, here is thy master," Kamal said, "who leads a troop of 

the Guides, 
And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides. 

"Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp, and board, and bed; 

Th}^ life is his — thy fate it is to guard him with thy head. 

So thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are 

thine. 
And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the 

Border-line. 

"And thou must make a trooper tough, and hack thy way to 

power — 
Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in 

Peshawur." 
They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they 

found no fault. 
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened 

bread and salt: 

They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and 

fresh-cut sod, 
On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the wondrous 

names of God. 
The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the 

dun. 
And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went 

forth but one. 

And when they drew to the Quarter- Guard, full twenty swords 

flew clear — 
There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the 

mountaineer. 
"Ha' done! ha' done!" said the Colonel's son. "Put up the 

steel at your sides! 
Last night ye had struck at a Border thief — to-night 'tis a man 

of the Guides!" 



288 Rudyard Kipling 

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, 
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Jtidgment Seat; 
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, 
When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the 
ends of4he earth! 



THE EXPLORER 

"There's no sense in going further — it's the edge of cultiva- 
tion," 
So they said, and I beheved it — broke my land and sowed 
my crop — 
Built my barns and strung my fences in the little border station 
Tucked away below the foothills where the trails run out and 
stop. 

Till a voice, as bad as Conscience, rang interminable changes 

On one everlasting Whisper day and night repeated — so: 
" Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the 
Ranges — 
Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. 
Go!" 

So I went, worn out of patience ; never told my nearest neigh- 
bors — 
Stole away with pack and ponies — left 'em drinking in the 
town; 
And the faith that moveth mountains didn't seem to help my 
labors 
As I faced the sheer main-ranges, whipping up and leading 
down. 

March by march I puzzled through 'em, turning flanks and 
dodging shoulders. 
Hurried on in hope of water, headed back for lack of grass; 



The Explorer 289 

Till I camped above the tree-line — drifted snow and naked 
boulders — 
Felt free air astir to windward — knew I'd stumbled on the 
Pass. 



Thought to name it for the finder: but that night the Norther 
found me — 
Froze and killed the plains-bred ponies: so I called the camp 
Despair 
(It's the Railway Gap to-day, though.) Then my Whisper 
waked to hound me: — 
"Something lost behind the Ranges. Over yonder. Go you 
there!" 

Then I knew, the while I doubted — knew His Hand was certain 
o'er me. 
StUl— it might be self-delusion — scores of better men had 
died — 
I could reach the township living, but ... He knows what 
terrors tore me. . . . 
But I didn't . . . but I didn't. I went down the other side. 

Till the snow ran out in flowers, and the flowers turned to aloes, 
And the aloes sprung to thickets and a brimming stream 
ran by; 
But the thickets dwined to thorn-scrub, and the water drained 
to shallows — 
And I dropped again on desert, blasted earth, and blasting 
sky. . . . 

I remember lighting fires; I remember sitting by them; 

I remember seeing faces, hearing voices through the smoke; 
I remember they were fancy — for I threw a stone to try 'em. 

"Something lost behind the Ranges," was the only word they 
spoke. 



290 Rudyard Kipling 

I remember going crazy. I remember that I knew it. 

When I heard myself hallooing to the funny folk I saw. 
Very full of dreams that desert: but my two legs took me 
through it. . . . 
And I used to watch 'em moving with the toes all black and 
raw. 

But at last the country altered — White man's country past 
disputing — - 
Rolling grass and open timber, with a hint of hills behind — 
There I found me food and water, and I lay a week recruiting, 
Got my strength and lost my nightmares. Then I entered 
on my find. 

Thence I ran my first rough survey — chose my trees and blazed 
and ringed 'em — 
Week by week I pried and sampled — week by week my find- 
ings grew. 
Saul he went to look for donkeys, and by God he found a king- 
dom! 
But by God, who sent His Whisper, I had struck the worth 
of two! 

Up along the hostile mountains, where the hair-poised snow- 
slide shivers — 
Down and through the big fat marshes that the virgin ore-bed 
stains, 
Till I heard the mile-wide mutterings of unimagined rivers 
And beyond the nameless timber saw illimitable plains! 

Plotted sites of future cities, traced the easy grades between 
'em; 
Watched unharnessed rapids wasting fifty thousand head an 
hour; 
Counted leagues of water-frontage through the ax-ripe woods 
that screen 'em — 
Saw the plant to feed a people — up and waiting for the power! 



The Explorer 291 

Well I know who'll take the credit — all the clever chaps that 
followed — 
Came, a dozen men together — never knew my desert fears; 
Tracked me by the camps I'd quitted, used the water holes 
I'd hoUowed. 
They'll go back and do the talking. They'll be called the 
Pioneers ! 

They will find my sites of townships — not the cities that I set 
there. 
They will rediscover rivers — not my rivers heard at night. 
By my old marks and bearings they will show me how to get 
there, 
By the lonely cairns I buUded they will guide my feet aright. 

Have I named one single river? Have I claimed one single 
acre? 
Have I kept one single nugget — (barring samples)? No, 
not I. 
Because my price was paid me ten times over by my Maker. 
But you wouldn't understand it. You go up and occupy. 

Ores you'll find there; wood and cattle; water transit sure and 
steady 
(That should keep the railway rates down), coal and iron at 
your doors. 
God took care to hide that country till He judged His people 
ready. 
Then He chose me for His Whisper, and I've found it, and 
it's yours! 

Yes, your "Never-never country" — yes, your "edge of culti- 
vation" 
And "no sense in going further" — tiU I crossed the range 
to see. 
God forgive me ! No, I didn't. It's God's present to our nation. 
Anybodv might have found it, but — His Whisper came to 
Me! 



292 Rudyard Kipling 



RECESSIONAL 

God of our fathers, known of old — 
Lord of our far-flung battle line — 

Behfeath whose awful hand we hold 
Dominion over palm and pine — 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

The tumult and the shouting dies — 
The Captains and the Kings depart — 

Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, 
An humble and a contrite heart. 

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 

Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

Far-called, our navies melt away — 
On dune and headland sinks the fire — 

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! 

Judge of the Nations, spare us yet. 

Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe- 
Such boasting as the Gentiles use. 

Or lesser breeds without the Law — 
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
Lest we forget — lest we forget! 

For heathen heart that puts her trust 
In reeking tube and iron shard — 

All valiant dust that builds on dust, 

And guarding calls not Thee to guard, — 

For frantic boast and foolish word, 

Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! amen. 



Cargoes 293 



L'ENVOI 

When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted 

and dried, 
When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has 

died, 
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it — lie down for an eon 

or two, 
Till the Master of all good workmen shall set us to work anew! 

And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a 

golden chair; 
They shall splash at a ten league canvas with brushes of comet's 

hair; 
They shall find real saints to draw from — Magdalene, Peter, 

and Paul; 
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all! 

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall 

blame ; 
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for 

fame; 
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate 

star 
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of things as 

They Are! 

JOHN MASEFIELD 

Gloucestershire 

CARGOES 

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir, 

Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine, 

With a cargo of ivory, 

And apes and peacocks. 

Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. 



294 John Masefield 

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus, 

Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores, 

With a cargo of diamonds, 

Emeralds, amethysts, 

Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores. 

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smokestack, 

Butting through the Channel in the mad March days. 

With a cargo of Tyne coal, 

Road-rails, pig-lead, 

Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays. 



AN OLD SONG RE-SUNG 

I saw a ship a-sailing, a-sailing, a-sailing. 
With emeralds and rubies and sapphires in her hold ; 
And a bosun in a blue coat bawling at the railing, 
Piping through a silver call that had a chain of gold ; 
The summer wind was failing and the tall ship rolled. 

I saw a ship a-steering, a-steering, a-steering, 

With roses in red thread worked upon her sails; 

With sacks of purple amethysts, the spoils of buccaneering. 

Skins of musky yellow wine, and silks in bales, 

Her merry men were cheering, hauling on the brails. 

I saw a ship a-sinking, a-sinking, a-sinking. 

With ghttering sea-water splashing on her decks. 

With seamen in her spirit-room singing songs and drinking, 

Pulling claret-bottles down, and knocking off the necks; 

The broken glass was chinking as she sank among the wrecks. 



SEA FEVER 

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, 
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; 



A Song of Sherwood 295 

And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's 

shaking, 
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking, 

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide 
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; 
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying. 
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls 
crying. 

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life. 
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a 

W'hetted knife; 
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, 
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. 



ALFRED NOYES 

1880, StalTordshire 



A SONG OF SHERWOOD 

Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake? 
Grey and ghostly shadows are ghding through the brake, 
Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn. 
Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn. 

Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thieves 

Hear a ghostly bugle-note shivering through the leaves, 

Calling as he used to call, faint and far away, 

In Sherwood, in Sherw^ood, about the break of day. 

Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June: 
All the wings of fairyland were here beneath the moon, 
Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mist 
Of opal and ruby and pearl and amethyst. 



296 Alfred No}xs 

Merry, merry England is waking as of old, 
With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold: 
For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting spray 
In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. 

Love is in the greenwood building him a house 
Of wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs: 
Love is in the greenwood, dawn is in the skies, 
And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes. 

Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep! 

Marian is waiting: is Robin Hood asleep? 

Round the fairy grass-rings frolic elf and fay, 

In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. 

Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold, 
Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould, 
Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red, 
And wake Will Scarlet from his leafy forest bed. 

Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down together 
With quarter-staff and drinking can and grey goose-feather. 
The dead are coming back again, the years are rolled away 
In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. 

Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows. 
All the heart of England hid in every rose 
Hears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap, 
Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep? 

Hark, the voice of England wakes him as of old 
And, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter gold 
Bugles in the greenwood echo from the steep, 
Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep? 

Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glen 
All across the glades of fern he calls his merry men — 
Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the May 
In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day — 



The Highwayman 297 

Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ash 
Rings the Follow! Follow! and the boughs begin to crash, 
The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to fly, 
And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by. 

Robin! Robin! Robin! All his merr}' thieves 
Answer as the bugle-note shivers through the leaves, 
Calling as he used to call, faint and far away, 
In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. 



THE HIGHWAYMAN 

PART I 

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, 
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, 
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, 
Antl the highwayman came riding — 

Riding — riding — 
The highwajonan came riding, up to the old inn door. 

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at 

his chin, 
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; 
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to his thigh! 
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle. 
His pistol butts a-twinkle, 
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky. 

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, 
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked 

and barred; 
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting 

there 
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, 
Bess, the landlord's daughter, 
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. 



298 Alfred Noyes 

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked 
Where Tim the ostler listened ; his face was white and peaked ; 
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay, 
But he loved the landlord's daughter, 

Tho^ landlord's red-lipped daughter, 
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say — 

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night. 
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning 

light; 
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day. 
Then look for me by moonlight, 

Watch for me by moonlight, 
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way." 

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, 
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like 

a brand 
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast ; 
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, 

(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) 
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away 

to the West. 



PART II 

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; 
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, 
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, 
A red-coat troop came marching — 

Marching — marching — 
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door. 

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead. 
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of 
her narrow bed; 



The Highwayman 299 

Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! 
There was death at every window; 

And hell at one dark window; 
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he 
would ride. 

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; 
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath 

her breast ! 
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the 

dead man say — 
Look for me by moonlight; 

Watch for me by moonlight; 
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! 

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! 
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or 

blood! 
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours 

crawled by like years, 
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, 

Cold, on the stroke of midnight, 
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at last was hers! 

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! 
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her 

breast. 
She would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again; 
For the road lay bare in the moonlight; 

Blank and bare in the moonlight; 
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her 

love's refrain. 

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing 

clear; 
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they 

did not hear? 



300 Alfred Noyes 

Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, 
The highwayman came riding, 

Riding, riding! 
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight 
and still! 

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! 
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! 
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, 
Then her finger moved in the moonlight, 

Her musket shattered the moonUght, 
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him — with 
her death. 

He turned; he spurred to the Westward; he did not know who 

stood 
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own 

red blood ! 
Not till the dawn he heard it, and slowly blanched to hear 
How Bess, the landlord's daughter, 

The landlord's black-eyed daughter, 
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the 

darkness there. 

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, 

With the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier bran- 
dished high! 

Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his 
velvet coat; 

When they shot him down on the highway, 
Down like a dog on the highway. 

And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace 
at his throat. 



And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, 
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, 



The Admiral's Ghost 301 

When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, 

A highwayman comes riding — 

Riding — riding — 
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. 

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; 
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and 

barred; 
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there 
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, 
Bess, the landlord's daughter, 
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. 

THE ADMIRAL'S GHOST 

I TELL you a tale to-night 

Which a seaman told to me, 
With eyes that gleamed in the lanthorn light 

And a voice as low as the sea. 

You could almost hear the stars 

TwinkUng up in the sky. 
And the old wind woke and moaned in the spars, 

And the same old waves went by, 

Singing the same old song 

As ages and ages ago, 
W'hile he froze my blood in that deep sea night 

With the things that he seemed to know. 

A bare foot pattered on deck; 

Ropes creaked ; then — all grew still, 
And he pointed his finger straight in my face 

And growled, as a sea dog will. 

"Do 'ee know who Nelson was? 

That pore little shriveled form. 
With the patch on his eye and the pinned up sleeve 

And a soul like a North Sea storm? 



302 Alfred Noyes 

"Ask of the Devonshire men! 

They know, and they'll tell you true; 
He wasn't the pore little chawed-up chap 

That Hardy thought he knew. 

"He w'asn't the man you think! 

His patch was a dern disguise! 
For he knew that they'd find him out, d'you see, 

If they looked him in both his eyes. 

"He was twice as big as he seemed; 

But his clothes were cunningly made. 
He'd both of his hairy arms all right! 

The sleeve was a trick of the trade. 

"You've heard of sperrits, no doubt; 

Well, there's more in the matter than that! 
But he wasn't the patch and he wasn't the sleeve. 

And he wasn't the laced cocked-hat. 

"Nelson was just — a Ghost! 

You may laugh! But the Devonshire men 
They knew that he'd come when England called, 

And they know that he'll come again. 

"I'll tell you the way it was 

(For none of the landsmen know). 

And to tell it you right, you must go a-starn 
Two hundred years or so. 



"The waves were lapping and slapping 
The same as they are to-day; 

And Drake lay dying aboard his ship 
In Nombre Dios Day. 



The Admiral's Ghost 303 

"The scent of the foreign flowers 

Came floating all around; 
'But I'd give my soul for the smell o' the pitch,' 

Says he, 'in Plymouth Sound.' 

"'What shall I do,' he says, 

' When the guns begin to roar. 
An' England wants me, and me not there 

To shatter 'er foes once more?' 



" (You've heard what he said, maybe 
But I'll mark you the p'ints again; 

For I want you to box your compass right 
And get my story plain.) 

"'You must take my drum,' he says, 

'To the old sea-wall at home; 
And if ever you strike that drum,' he says, 

'Why, strike me blind, I'll come! 

"'If England needs me, dead 

Or living, I'll rise that day! 
I'll rise from the darkness under the sea 

Ten thousand miles away.' 

"That's what he said; and he died; 

An' his pirates, listenin' roun'. 
With their crimson doublets and jewelled swords 

That flashed as the sun went down. 



"They sewed him up in his shroud 
With a round-shot top and toe. 

To sink him under the salt sharp sea 
Where all good seamen go. 



304 Alfred Noyes 

"They lowered him down in the deep, 

And there in the sunset light 
They boomed a broadside over his grave, 

As meanin' to say 'Good-night.' 
' V 
"They sailed away in the dark 

To the dear little isle they knew; 
And they hung his drum by the old sea-wall, 

The same as he told them to. 



"Two hundred years went by, 

And the guns began to roar, 
And England was fighting hard for her life, 

As ever she fought of yore. 

"'It's only my dead that count," 

She said, as she says to-day; 
'It isn't the ships and it isn't the guns 

'Ull sweep Trafalgar's Bay.' 

"D' you guess who Nelson was? 

You may laugh, but it's true as true! 
There was more in that pore little chawed-up chap 

Than ever his best friend knew. 

"The foe was creepin' close, 
In the dark, to our white-clifTed isle; 

They were ready to leap at England's throat, 
When — O, you may smile, you may smile; 

"But — ask of the Devonshire men; 

For they heard in the dead of night 
The roll of a drum and they saw him pass 

On a ship all shining white. 



The Admiral's Ghost 305 

"He stretched out his dead cold face, 

And he sailed in the grand old way! 
The fishes had taken an eye and an arm, 

But he swept Trafalgar's Bay. 

"Nelson — was Francis Drake! 

O, what matters the uniform, 
Or the patch on your eye or your pinned-up sleeve, 

If your soul's Hke a North Sea storm?" 



X 



REFERENCES 
TECHNICAL AND HISTORICAL 

TYPES OF POETRY 

Epic, the poetry of great events concerned with the fortunes 
of some central figure related in a majestic style (Homer's 
Odyssey) . 

Dramatic, the conversation or monologues in verse, which 
reveal the characters, motives, and acts of the persons of the 
drama {Macbeth). 

Didactic teaches the reader, either directly, as a lecture, or 
by suggestion through the use of a story with a moral {How 
Doth the Little Busy Bee). 

Narrative tells a story {The Lady of the Lake). 

Ballad, a form of narrative poetry which had its origin in the 
common people, and deals either with their own life or with 
heroic deeds they have merely heard of {Robin Hood). 

Ode, a high, that is, a ceremonial or hymn-like type of 
poetry, giving beauty and fulness to a definite theme or sub- 
ject {The Ode on a Grecian Urn). 

Lyric, so called from the lyre with which it was anciently 
supposed to be accompanied, hence, a song-like poem, dealing 
with a single thought or emotion, and expressed in the first 
person. The chief essential of its form is melody {Sweet Day, so 
cool, so calm, so bright). 

Elegy, a sad or reflective lyric, usually with a narrative 
element {The Elegy in a Country Churchyard). 

Sonnet, a lyric of fourteen verses (lines) in which the thought 
or emotion is regarded in the first part as developing, in the 
second part as being applied. Sometimes the development 
occupies twelve verses and the application two {When to the 
sessions of sweet silent thought); and sometimes the develop- 

307 



3o8 References, Technical and Historical 

ment occupies eight and the application six {Much have I 
travelVd in the realms of gold) . 

Epigram, as Professor Gummere points out, is a poem written 
on something; it is therefore short and to the point. It bears 
the same relation to an ordinary form of expression that a 
diamond bears to a lump of coal — it is compressed, hard, 
brilliant, costly, and likely to cut or scratch {You beat your pate 
and fancy wit will come) . 

Epitaph, on a tomb, originally; then, any inscription con- 
veying remembrance of the dead. 

Pastoral, originally the artistic imitation of the songs shep- 
herds were supposed to sing when tending their flocks {Come 
live with me and be my love) ; then broadened to include almost 
any poetic rural theme {The Deserted Village). 

Vers de Societe. There must be some occasion, slight or 
serious, treated with wit, cleverness, and lightness {On a Girdle). 

Vers Libre, the most modern type of verse, in which the chief 
regard is paid to the visualizing of sensuous details, and in 
which there is the most perfect freedom of versification. There 
are no examples of this ultra-romantic school of poetry in this 
little volume. 

PROSODY (SCIENCE OF VERSIFICATION) 

From the Latin versor, to keep turning, is verse, used as a 
general equivalent for the word poetry {British Verse for Boys); 
also used as a more modest word than poetry {Album Verses); 
also the correct term for a line of poetry (the first verse of the 
poem). A verse is self-limited in length, but a line of prose is 
lirbited only by the width of the page. 

Stanza, a natural group of related verses. 

Rhyme, in its ordinary sense, the repetition of similar, not 
identical, syllables. These similar syllables ordinarily come at 
the end of the verses (sing, ring) . When the syllable in the midst 
of the verse is similar to one at the end, the rhyme is called 
mid-line rhyme (About, about, in reel and rout); when two 
syllables rhyme with two others, the rhyme is called double 
(singing — ringing). Unrhymed verse is called blank. 



References, Technical and Historical 309 

Rhythm, the flow of sound; and, as sounds tend to flow in 
waves, some louder than others, rhythm has come to mean 
recurrence of accents, either regular or regularly varied. Exam- 
ples are: the ticking of a watch; the beating of the pulse; the 
accent of speech; a verse (Alone, alone, all, all alone, alone on a 
wide, wide sea). 

Metre. Measure of rhythm. Count the accents in the example 
just above, and you will find there are seven. Metrically arranged, 
as in the Ancient Mariner from which the verses are quoted. 

Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide, wide sea, 

you will notice that four of the seven are in the first verse, 
three in the second. Such metre as this is called Ballad Metre. 
Metres are named from the number of accents in the verse, 
which may vary from one to eight. Metres also may move 
swiftly or slowly; and curiously enough the effect of swiftness 
arises from the increase in the ratio of syllables to accents. 
Study these examples. How many syllables in each verse? 
How many accents in each? Which moves faster? 

1. hark, O hear, how thin and clear. 

2. O young Lochinvar is come out of the West. 

Feet are the groups of syllables which make up a verse. 
In every group there is one accented syllable and one or more 
unaccented. Study this nursery rhyme: 

Simple Simon went a fishing 
For to catch a whale. 

There are four feet in the first verse, three in the second. Study 
this from Longfellow: 

This is the forest primeval, the murmuring pines and the hem- 
locks 

There are six feet in this verse. Study this from Milton: 

Come, and trip it as you go. 
On the light, fantastic toe. 

There are four feet in each verse. 



3IO References, Technical and Historical 

The character of the individual foot is best learned from 
Coleridge, who wrote a poem for his own boy on this subject. 
You will find it on page 141. 

Scanning consists in marking the feet of a verse of poetry, 
first in the mind by the sound, and then on paper. It is usual 
to mark the*-feet, as feet, by vertical lines; but it is also of 
importance to discern which is the accented syllable in each 
foot and mark that. There is an oral scansion, which consists 
of reading the verse with an artificial stress on the accented 
syllables. Remember that the first step in scanning is a natural 
reading of the verse, with an intelligent regard for its meaning. 

/ ' 11 

It is I an An I cient Mar | iner,| 
/ / t 

And he stop | peth one | of three. | 

In scanning this passage it was first noted that Coleridge in- 
tended to name a person as if seen on the street holding up one 
of three other persons whom he met. This idea requires the 
first accent to fall on // rather than is. The stresses on An and 
Mar are obvious, but the one on cr is not a natural stress as the 
word is commonly pronounced. It is a stress only in com- 
parison with the stress as the preceding syllable /. (To make 
this clear, read the verse aloud, and try putting the stress on i.) 
The first accent we naturally come upon in the second verse is on 
stop, which requires us to pass over two syllables without stress, 
instead of one as in the last three feet of the verse above. 
(Observe the effect on the sense of the verse, of putting the 
stress on any other syllables than the ones marked. This comes 
about through the principle that the poet as well as we, his 
readers, knew what was the common understanding of words 
and phrases, and constructed his verse accordingly. This 
apparently unnecessary remark is occasioned by the feeling a 
good many boys have that there is something arbitrary about 
scanning. Other examples follow: 

t I tit 

So all I day long | the noise | of bat | tie roll'd | 

This is a clear and regular example of blank, heroic verse, 



References, Technical and Historical 311 

which has ten syllables, five accents, each accent falling on the 
second syllable of the foot, as a rule. The following verse scans 
the same, except for what is called a shift of accent in the opening 
foot — a delightful variety in a long poem, and also except for 
the extra syllable at the end, which is known as a feminine end- 

t r Iff 

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder. 

Below is an example made up wholly of feet in which the 
accent falls on the first of each two syllables, and in which also 
there is an irregularity frequently found in verse — the omission 
of the final syllable: 

What hath night to do with sleep? 

Pause may take the place of an unaccented syllable as in the 
verse just scanned. It may appear in other places than at the 
end of the verse, especially in dramatic poetry when the effect 
of sudden change is desired. There is also in all long verses, a 
kind of pause which does not take the place of any syllable, but 
is used to control the phrasing or inflecting of the verse. It is 
called the Casura. In the following examples the caesuras 
occur at different points in the verse: 

/ I I f f f 

When I I dipt in | to the fut | ure || far | as hu | man eye | could 

see I 

f f I I — 

Immor | tal vig || or though | oppressed | and fallen | 

/ f I f f 

Shortly | shall all | my lab | ors end,|| and | thou | 
/ f t f I f 

My duke | dom 1 1 since ] you've giv | en me | again { 

Quatrain, a stanza of four verses in which the fourth rhymes 
with the second, and the third may rhyme with the first. 
Sometimes, but rarely, the fourth rhymes not with the second 
but with the first. 

Couplet, two verses rhymed. 

Heroic Couplet, a pair of 5-beat, lo-syllable verses rhymed. 



312 References, Technical and Historical 

The most familiar form is that established in the 17th century, 
on Chaucer's model, and brought to perfection in the i8th 
century, by Pope. Its characteristics are its completeness, its 
ease, and its patness or point. 

Judges and senates have been bought for gold, • 

Esteem and love were never to be sold. 

Special Forms of verse, particularly if produced in English 
by foreign influence, should be studied in such treatises as 
Professor Gummere's Handbook of Poetics. (Ginn and Com- 
pany.) But many may be observed in this volume, and to 
some attention has been called in the notes. 

Poet Laureate, a poet of unquestioned character and loyalty, 
who is given a small pension, and the honor of being the 
official poet of the kingdom. Laureate means crowned with 
laurel, which was the leaf with which poets were crowned in 
ancient Greece, at the festivals in honor of Apollo, the god of 
poetry. It has sometimes happened that the laurel has not 
crowned the most gifted poet of England. On the other hand, 
Tennyson, by his work in general and his occasional poems, 
(such as his Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington), reflected 
glory on the ofiice. 

POETICAL PERIODS OR MOVEMENTS 

There have been great single poets in times not favorable to 
their growth, but as a rule greatness or even success has been 
in part conditioned by the age. The age does not account for 
Chaucer, except in a very slight degree. It does go far towards 
explaining Shakspere, Pope, or Tennyson. 

The Renaissance or New Learning had been a gradual devel- 
opment in England during the XV century. It consisted essen- 
tially in the influence upon English thought of the ideals and 
impulses of Italy, as hers had grown out of the new-born enthu- 
siasm for classical literature and art which had possessed her 
scholars for two centuries. The growth of the art and fashion 
of painting at this time in England was of course a great help, 



i 



References, Technical and Historical 313 

and certain great continental scholars came into England to 
give University men a good chance to study Greek and Latin 
at home. The enlarging of the bounds of imaginative study, the 
expansion of foreign relations of all kinds due to larger commerce 
and explorations, the XVT century religious excitement and 
freedom, the new-found national consciousness of Britain, all 
worked together to produce an atmosphere favorable to original 
literary endeavor, and one which offered both new and interest- 
ing material to write about, and a new and larger public to write 
for. On this high and rising tide of life rode the poets Spenser, 
Marlowe, and Shakspere, with all the other Elizabethans. It 
was an age in which genius was fostered. Great things were 
done with no consciousness that they were either great or 
difficult. 

The Puritan Age followed that of Elizabeth. It was an age 
of reaction from worldly standards. The conscience of the 
nation had awakened with its imagination, and a new and 
critical form of piety developed. Poets who were far from 
being Puritans themselves felt the influence of this atmosphere 
of morality, and were moved either to sympathy with it or 
hostility to it. The Cavalier Poets, the followers of King 
Charles, quite frankly took a non-Puritanic view, and made 
what capital they could out of ridiculing the peculiar advocates 
of righteousness. Their doctrine was in some cases the one 
deplored in Scripture, "Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to- 
morrow we die." Such a doctrine brought out the delightful 
lyrics of Lovelace, while Milton's mighty trumpet voiced the 
serious spirit of the age. 

The Restoration is the name given to the period of revolt 
from the restraint of the Puritans, when at the close of the 
Commonwealth in 1660 the Stuarts were restored to power. It 
was a dissolute and decadent age, and was happily soon past. 
Dryden lived through it. 

The Classical Age was the period, of uncertain duration, which 
covered most of the poetical activities of England from 1688 to 
1 760 — the reigns of William and Mary, Anne, and the first two 
Georges. The typical work of this period was unoriginal in 



314 References, Technical and Historical 

thought, and rule-ridden m form. Of course there were 
writers of unusual brilliancy and talent who rose above the 
age, but not a single poet who could not be spared from our 
daily thought and reading without serious unhappiness. The 
three greatr^ames are Dryden, Pope, and Swift. The influences 
which made the age peculiar were, first, political and religious 
timidity and weariness; second, unblushing self-interest; third, 
the habit of imitation, — one man imitated another, and all 
imitated Horace, or Juvenal, or some other Latin poet; fourth, 
the fashions, and especially the fashion of following the French 
ideas of the time in china, in furniture, in manners, in vices and 
virtues, and particularly in the rules for writing poetry. The 
age was of value to those which have succeeded it chiefly 
through the development of the art of saying things with 
extreme clearness. But as this is a merit of prose rather than of 
verse, we cannot consider this description the highest praise. 

The Age of Romanticism marked the swing of the pendulum 
of freedom of thought and style away from its Classical re- 
straints. Burns, Cowper, Gray, then Wordsworth and Col- 
eridge, then Byron, Shelley, Keats, and Scott — these names 
suggest the way the world won back its habit of thinking 
sincerely and writing in harmony with the thought and not 
according to rule or fashion. As you read on and on, in this 
little book, you will find yourself passing through one atmos- 
phere after another, and if you are keen to notice, you will/ee/ 
the ages as you feel changes in the country through which you 
bowl along in an open car. 

One caution may be necessary. You must not suppose that a 
Romanticist is the same as a romancer. Romanticism is the 
laying of the chief emphasis in poetry on the substance rather 
than on the form, and especially it is contrary to self-conscious 
and traditional form. Classicism is conventionality; Roman- 
ticism, liberty. 



References, Technical and Historical 315 

DATES 

The following dates in English history are of occasional 
value to one who is studying the poetry age by age: 

XIV Century: Edward III and the Black Prince. War with 
France. 

XV Century: Introduction of printing. Study of Greek in the 
Universities. Discovery and Exploration. Wars of the Roses 
end. 

Henry VIII: (1509) New Learning encouraged. Quarrel with 
Roman church brought England into the current of the Refor- 
mation . 

Edivard VI: Great schools established on ruins of monasteries. 

Elizabeth: Rehgious toleration, large undertakings, height of 
Renaissance, new pride in national greatness. 

James I: (1603) Continuance of most lines of Elizabethan ac- 
tivity. The King James Version of the Bible. Rise of Puritans. 

Charles I: (1625) People rose, and in 1649 estabhshed common- 
wealth, which for eleven years marked England as a Puritan 
Democracy. Ohver Cromwell was its chief, with title of 
Protector; Milton its Latin or Foreign Secretary, who had the 
task of justifying the Protectorate to the monarchies of Europe. 

Charles II: (1660) The Restoration of the Stuarts, and, with 
them, of the Church of England. 

William of Orange and Mary Stuart: (1688) an elected king, 
and the Whig party in the ascendant. 

Anne: (1702) The last of the Stuarts. Tatler and Spectator 
pubUshed. Foreign wars. 

George I: (17 14) First of the House of Hanover. German 
Prince, with no EngUsh sympathy or language. 

George II: (1725) Miscalled Augustus, from his supposed like- 
ness to Augustus Caesar in patronizing men of letters. 

George III: (1760) who looked on while the world threw off 
many of the restraints which tradition and government had 
long maintained. The revolutions in America and France were 
political, but it was not more in politics than in hterature an 
age of change and newness. 



3l6 References, Technical and Historical 

Lake Poets : This is a name given to Wordsworth and his two 
friends, Coleridge and Southey, because they lived a longer or 
shorter time in the English Lake Country — Westmoreland. 
Wordsworth was in a very real sense a lake-poet. 

Victoria:' (^i^2)l) Ii^ its way this reign was as rich as that of 
Elizabeth — but one was rich in energy, initiative, and promise; 
the other in the results of these precious beginnings of greatness. 
With all pride in the work of Darwin we ought to remember that 
he was in a sense made possible by Bacon. So in literature, 
the long list of notable men descended from that list of far- 
distant pioneers called the Elizabethans. To what men and 
women, and of what kind of literary powers, will the genius of 
the Victorian Age become a heritage? 

George V: (1907) This is a time of many good poets, and much 
sincere and lofty pursuit of truth. We are too close to judge it 
fairly, but if there is one quality that deserves to be called 
dominant, it is, perhaps, the quality of realism — the portrayal 
of life with its facts and motives unadorned; splendor and 
magnitude are apparently not yet reached in current poetry. 
Can it be that the world war — the blackest tragedy of all time — 
will generate these attributes of a majestic literature? Can it be 
that British thought is even now stumbling up the great world's 
altar-stairs that slope through darkness up to God? 



INTRODUCTIONS AND NOTES 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER 

The tomb of Thomas a Becket, the martyred Archbishop of Can- 
terbury, had been for many years a holy shrine to pilgrims from all 
parts of England. The Canterbury Talcs are supposed to be told by 
Chaucer and his companions on their pilgrimage to Becket's tomb. 
In the prologue, the characters are introduced, and the place and man- 
ner of their meeting at the Tabard, in South London, are described. 

There were thirty in the company in all, representing almost as 
many types and vocations; and each member was supposed, in 
Chaucer's original plan, to tell two stories going to Canterbury, and 
two more coming back. This scheme was by no means completely 
executed, but twenty-four Tales have come down to us, each fittingly 
told by a pilgrim-character, and each evidence of the genius of the 
Father of English Poetry. 

The life of Chaucer had prepared him in an extraordinary way to 
write of various classes of English society. He is thought of as a 
courtier, diplomat, or statesman. But he had begun life as pot-boy 
in his father's wine-shop; then had served successively as page in the 
household of a prince, soldier in the army of Edward IH, and valet 
to the king. He had been the passionate lover of a lady beyond his 
reach, a student of literature and of science, a custom-house officer 
in London, a famous traveler, and a practical man of affairs. It is 
this varied experience, as well as his gift for seeing and writing vividly, 
that made his portrayals and stories immortal. 

Chaucer's personal gifts were chiefly a loyal heart, a charming man- 
ner, a kindly wit, broad sympathies, and common sense. He was the 
lirst poet to be buried in the Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey. 

soote, sweet through which the sun 

swich, such passes in April 

vertue, life corages, hearts 

holt, wood halwes, holy places, shrines 

Ram , that ' ' sign of the zodiac " kouth, famous 

317 



3i8 



Introductions and Notes 



devyse, show 

ferre, further 

reysed, forayed 

arive, a gathering of troops at 

the shore {ad ripam) for an 

expeditioh 
ilke, same 
prys, praise 
vileinye, vulgarity 
wight, person 
fustyan, homespun 
gepoun, short, tight coat 
bysmotered, smudged 
habergeoun, coat of mail 
bacheler, a squire who aspires 

to become a knight 
cruUe, curly 
evene lengthe, average 

height 
delyver, nimble 
chivachye, cavalry service 
floytynge, playing his flute 
make and endite, compose and 

write 
nightertale, night time 
cleped, called 
fetysly, accurately 
leste, pleasure 
raughte, reached 
sikerly, certainly 
disport, fun 
peyned, took pains 
countrefete cheere, imitate 

the manners 
estatlich, stately 
wastel breed, bread made of 

, tine wheat-flour 
yerde, stick 



wympel, veil, covering head 
and neck 

y-pynched, plaited 

tretys, pretty 

fetys, neat 

logik, learning 

overeste courtepy, outer gar- 
ment 

benefice, living, pastorate 

office, civic office 

levere, more eager 

fithele, fiddle 

sawtrie, harp 

philosophre, a pun, the word 
meaning either "lover of 
learning" or "alchemist" 

herte, get 

sentence, meaning 

sowning, tending to 

sythes, times 

lafte nat, ceased not 

lewed, ignorant 

keep, care (for his worldly in- 
terests) 

leet, left 

chaunterie for soules, a chance 
to sing masses in the 
cathedral 

withholde, maintained, living 
free in a monastery 

mercenarie, hireling 

despitous, cruel 

daungerous ne digne, difticult 
nor disdainful 

snybben, rebuke 

nones, occasion 

spiced, high- flavored with 
worldh' knowledge 



Introductions and Notes 319 



BALLADS 

Between the work of genial Chaucer and the height of the Reiiais- 
siiiice in the middle of the Sixteenth Century, there was a period of 
I'^nglish life comparatively unblest by written poetry. But the people 
were singing, taught by their gifted though unlettered bards, and their 
songs were here and there, as time went on, committed to paper. 
They were called ballads, and celebrate every sort of public or pri- 
\ate event, telling the news or retelling famous stories. They move 
rapidly in couplets of seven beats (usually printed as verses of four 
and three) and are marked by swift action, simple thought, and a 
way of their own of painting pictures and relating events. In their 
original mediaeval use they were not recited, but sung to some accom- 
paniment, perhaps of a harp; and to many of them even now tradi- 
tional melodies are attached. 

Sir P.\trick Spens. Eric, the King of Norway, and his Scottish 
bride, died in 1278, or thereabout, leaving a little daughter. King 
Edward I of England, some years later, concluded that it would be 
"good poHtics" to marry his son to this "Maiden of Norway," as she 
was quaintly called. So, to use the words of the chronicle, "Am- 
bassadors were despatched to bring home the royal infant, who, to the 
great grief of the whole kingdom, died on the voyage." Was this 
the "King's daughter of Norroway," and were the ambassadors the 
"Scots lairds" in "cork-heeled shoon"? This is a good example of 
the way in which actual events found their way into the popular 
ballads, after a century or two had enveloped the facts in a romantic 
mist. 

Dunfermline, ancient residence of the Scottish kings, and the birth- 
place of Andrew Carnegie, 
skeely, skilful 
braid, broad 

King's daughter, \cr}- likely an allusion to the daughter of Eric of 
Norway who as bride of Prince Henry died on her voj^age to Scot- 
land. 

lap, leaped, sprang lode, load of blows 

wap, bind jow, toll 

laith, loath Islington, pronounce Izlington 

Chevy Chase, Cheviot Hunting fond, foolish, doting 

wode, furious 



320 Introductions and Notes 



SIR EDWARD DYER 

My Mind to me a Kingdom is sets forth a quaint but shrewd 
analysis of the doctrine of coiilcntment. Note how this doctrine differs 
from that of &Qlisf action. One seeks enough, the other restrains de- 
sire. In the apprehension of this difference lies the secret of happiness, 
as truly now as it did three centuries ago when Sir Edward expounded 
it. The theory of life contained in this poem was put to the extreme 
test of actual experiment by a New England scholar in the middle of 
the Nineteenth Centurj^, Henry David Thoreau, who left the social 
life of Concord for the simplicity of a cabin on lonely Walden Pond. 
Such an application of the theory is interesting, but not necessary. 
The truest test would take place in the midst of ordinary conditions. 
We often hear of a man who eagerly seeks more money, though he is 
already so rich that his wealth is a burden to him. Has he Sir Ed- 
ward's spirit? 

grows by kind, is produced by nature. 
want, lack, Oiot desire). 
thrall, slave. 

surfeits, sickens with excess. 
pine, waste away with longing. 
ease, peace. 

EDMUND SPENSER 

The name Amorctti, which Spenser gave his love Sonnets, was bor- 
rowed from Italy along with the Sonnet itself (Such things give the 
words "Italian influence" and "Renaissance" a more definite meaning 
to us. They show England in the act of learning from Italy). These 
verses were written to honor his wife, the "Irish country lass," Eliz- 
abeth Boyle, while the Faerie Queenc was written to honor the great 
Elizabeth of England. The stanza, called Spenserian, in which this 
great work is written, is worthy of special examination. It has how 
many verses? What is the rhyme order in the first stanza? Is it the 
same in all? How many beats in the various verses? Was it a small 
thing to write so many such stanzas? Yet Spenser, filled with the 
boundless energy of the age, did not blench at the prospect of com- 
pleting his gigantic plan for twenty-four books in the same style. 
What did discourage him is shown with pathetic clearness in the Httle 
poem, Hope Deferred, above. Spenser drew his famous passage on the 
trees from Chaucer. The interesting parallel may be studied by re- 



4 



Introductions and Notes 321 

ferring to Chaucer's Parlcnieiil of Foiiles (Meeting of the Birds) Hnes 

176-182. 

juniper, a low, spreading evergreen bush. 

eglantine, sometimes the honeysuckle, but here the dogrose or large 
wild brier common in English hedges. 

pill, bitter because concentrated essence of the nut. 

moly, a mythical white flower, with a black root. 

sour enough, a mi.xed flavor, like sorrel. 

suing, petitioning — here, for royal favors. 

Prince's, Queen Elizabeth's. 

Sayling Pine, used for masts of ships. 

weepeth still, balsam from its boughs, like tears. 

forlorne paramours, lonely lovers. I recall hearing, some years a^o, 
that great Yorkshireman Dr. Calthrop, sing this ancient York- 
shire ditty: 

"All 'round my hat I wears a green willow; 
All "round my hat, for a year and a day. 
If any one should ask you the reason why I wears it, 
Then say that mj^ true love is far, far away." 

Eugh, yew, of which the English made their bows. 

shaftes, arrows. 

Sallow, a kind of willow specially good for making into charcoal. 

Mirrhe, which when "bitterly wounded" exudes an aromatic gum. 

Warlike Beech, used for clubs and shields. 

Platane, the plane-tree, which bears round balls. 

Holme, or holly, the best wood for carving. 

weening, hoping, e.vpecting. 

JOHN LYLY 

Lyly shared in the English Revival of classical learning. He was 
a wit in the Queen's court, and a London schoolmaster. He wrote 
both brilliant plays and two strange prose books about Eiiphues (the 
Well-Bred). These spread abroad a fanciful kind of language, 
called Euphuism, which influenced the style of many writers, in- 
cluding Shakspere. 

ClTPiD AND Campaspe. Appelles, the court-painter, was required 
to paint the portrait of Campaspe, the Persian captive of Alexander 
the Great. The artist fell deep in love with the fair slave, sang this 
song in her praise, was overheard, was threatened by the Emperor, 



322 Introductions and Notes 

gave up hope even of life, and finally was raised to a heaven of joy 

by being given Campaspe for his bride. 

his mother's doves, etc. Cupid made free with the property of Venus, 

his mother, in the desperate game with Campaspe, in addition 

to losing to her all his own charms. 



SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 

Sidney was the "soldier of the queen" who was so fortunate as to 
become the e.xample to all young men in his own day and ever Since, 
of true manhood and gentleness. You remember the " cup of water" 
given to the common soldier on the field of Zutphen? 

To Sleep. Compare Sidney's description of sleep with that which 
Shakspere puts into the mouth of Macbeth, Act II, Sc. II. "Stella" 
was Sidney's name for the Lady Penelope Devereux, to whom he was 
betrothed. The Arcadia, from which this tuneful sonnet is drawn, is 
a prose romance, very elal^orate and fanciful, but not interesting to 
most readers nowadays. 
certain knot, one that will not let peace slip. 
baiting-place, where wit stops to refresh itself. 
proof, armor. 

civil wars, because within himself. 

image, his only consolation for a sleepless night will be the memory 
of his lady-love. 

My True Love Hath My He.xrt. Theophile Marzial's setting of 
this madrigal in the musical form called the Canon, is an e.xquisite 
duet. Only the first eight lines, the octet, is sung. Do you see the 
reason for this? 

MICHAEL DRAYTON 

Michael Drayton was a very patriotic poet. He wrote long and 
stirring accounts of English heroes, especially in war, but his most 
important work was a sort of rhymed geography of 100,000 lines, 
called Polyolhion, which describes the mountains, fields, forests, 
towns and rivers of Britain, and tells stories about them all. It is not 
by these long poems, however, that Drayton is best known, but by 
his lyrics, for e.xample, the sonnet. Since there's no help, come let us kiss 
and part. This is particularly admired on account of the sudden turn 
given to the thought in the closing couplet. 
Passion, the same person as Love in the verse abo\'e. 



Introductions and Notes 323 

The sj)irilc(l account, of the battle of Agincourt, between Henry V 
and the French, affords another good example. The victory of the 
English Yeomen is presented dramatically in the fourth act of Shak- 
spere's Henry V ; and Drayton's lyrical form was admired by Tennyson, 
as may be discovered in his Charge of the Light Brigade. So it appears 
that both the theme and the metre of this particular poem of Dray- 
ton's are of special interest. 
Agincourt, pronounce so as to rhyme with/or/. 
bilbos, swords, from the town in Spain where they were made. 
maiden knight, because fighting his first battle. 

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE 

When we think of Marlowe, we see a life of the greatest promise 
cut off before its prime. Marlowe was a natural scholar. He had 
e\'ery adxantage offered by the stimulating atmosphere of Cambridge 
University at the height of the English Renaissance. A dramatic 
gift, second to none, found expression in live powerful tragedies, 
written in that blank verse Pentameter which has since been the 
medium of all the highest utterances in English poetry'; but his life 
also was a tragedy, and ended violently in a tavern brawl. 

The P.\ssionate Shepherd to his Love. The imagery employed 
to ornament this appeal is not only artificial; it reflects the pastoral 
ornamentation of the love poetry of the ancient Greeks, of whom 
Marlowe was an enthusiastic disciple — another evidence of the Eng- 
lish re\i\al of classical learning. 
madrigals, shepherd's songs, usually of love. 
kirtle, skirt, or jacket with skirt attached. 
swains, rustic youths. 

T.-VMBURL.\iNE TO C.\LYPHAs. This brief passage is introduced to 
give an idea of "Marlowe's mighty line." Tamburlaine, the powerful 
Eastern conqueror, had three sons. Of these three boys, two were 
outspoken in their eagerness to join their father's army. But Caly- 
phas, feeling sorry for his mother who would thus be bereft of her 
children, expressed a modest desire to remain at home. Thereupon 
the warlike king burst forth upon him in this scathing rebuke. 

WILLLVM SHAKSPERE 

From the discordant life of Marlowe it is a relief to turn to the poet 
whom Milton called "Sweetest Shakspere, Fancy's child." The cen- 



324 Introductions and Notes 

tral fact of Shakspere's life is his possession and exercise of genius. 
The most important secondary fact about Shakspere is that he Hved 
in that age of England's history which may be described as the most 
restlessly and joyously alive — the Age of Elizabeth. The genius of 
Shakspere was primarily a genius for appreciating every phase of 
the life of this 'restless and joyous age, e\ery thing, every person, 
every event, e\'cry sight or sound. With this gift of universal interest 
and insight was joined the most facile power of expression ever ac- 
corded to the pen of man. Shakspere was a country lad, and even 
after he went up to London to seek his fortune, he had neither time 
nor opportunity for systematic study. His university was the world; 
his teachers, fellow-playwrights, or the "groundlings" who roared 
from the "pit," or the gay noblemen who frequented the boxes and 
patronized the dramatists. Out of all this came the greatest of 
poets — the Voice through whom, for three hundred years, have 
vibrated the hopes, fears, loves, ambitions, griefs, and merriment of 
mankind. 

Five SoNNET.s. These sonnets, in the English, not the true Italian, 
form, are sometimes called quatorzaiiis. They consist of three qua- 
trains and a couplet, and the thought is usually "developed" through 
the first twelve lines, and then rather epigrammaticall}' "applied" 
in the last two. The five sonnets here given are drawn from Shak- 
spere's great series of one hundred and fifty-four. 
bootless, profitless, vain. 
like him, may be taken as like a single other fortunate man, or like 

one in one respect, and another in another. 
contented least is thoroughly explained by Dyer in My Mind to me a 

Kingdom is. 
alchemy, which changes baser metals into gold. 
anon, soon. 

rack, masses of clouds. 
forlorn, lost, suggests the German vcrloren. 
my sun, the friend who was the light of my life, 
chronicle of wasted time, history. 
wights, persons. 

for, because, used twice adds reason to reason. 
outward walls, dress, house, equipage. 
aggravate, add weight to, increase. 

terms divine, ages in God's presence, cheaply purchased at the ex- 
pense of lioiirs of dross, that is, worthless pleasure. 
Death once dead, see Romans, VI, 1 1 . 



Introductions and Notes 325 

Under the (iREENwooD Tree and Blow, Blow, Thou Winter 
Wind are sung in the Forest of Arden by the faithful courtiers of the 
Banished Duke. The classic setting of these two songs was Dr. Arne's 
early in the Eighteenth Century. It was a Lover and his Lass (set 
to music about the same time by Thomas Morley) is another As You 
Like It song. This one is sung towards the close of the play, and has 
reference to the clown Touchstone and his affectionate but awkward 
sweetheart, Audrey. Of course, the effect of these and all other "in- 
cidental" songs i,i greatly enhanced by the background of the play it- 
self. Look up these three in As ]'oii Like It. Hark, Hark, the Lark, 
and Silvia inspired Schubert, the greatest of all German melodists, to 
set them to perfect music. 
Warp, weave into ice. 
there suck I, emphasizes the smallness of the powerful fairy, Ariel, 

who sings this song to his master, Prospero, the magician — Duke 

of Milan. 
Full fathom five, is also sung by Ariel, — but to Ferdinand, who is 

made to believe his father drowned. 
chaliced, having cups to hold the dew. 
winking, because marigolds close at night, 
pleasance, gaiety, 
brave, fine, splendid. 
prime, youth. 

Henry V before Harfleur. To select a typical passage from 
the dramatic verse of Shakspere is difficult, because proper selections 
are so many. This one is strong, however, as well as subtle, and shows 
the young King in the exuberance of his royal leadership, with his 
loyal knights and eager yeomen waiting on his word. If there is a 
touch of bombast in the address it maj^ not be Shakspere's so much as 
King Henry's own. Shouldn't you like to have Shakspere compose a 
campaign speech for your candidate, or a football speech before your 
team went out to play? 

breach, the hole already broken in the city wall. 
be copy, here he addresses his noble generals. 
yeomen, the freemen of England who had so successfully fought the 

many battles of the Hundred Years' War. 
mettle of your pasture, th'e spirit produced by your English breeding. 

BEN JONSON 

Jonson's life was composed of contradictor}^ elements from begin- 
ning to end; good birth but much poverty; learning and bricklaying; 



326 



Introductions and Notes 



hearty friendships and violent quarrels; sword and pen; destitute 
old age and unparalleled fame. He was recognized by the king and 
made poet laureate, and he was also recognized by his fellow-poets 
as their example and autocrat. He produced many dramas, mainly 
comedies, in the first of which. Every Man in his Humour, Shakspere 
played a part in 1598. He was buried in Westminster Abbey in the 
Poets' Corner, "^in a tomb inscribed with the simple but eloquent 
words, "O Rare Ben Jonson!" It was he who referred to Marlowe's 
blank verse as "Marlowe's mighty line," and it was he who said of 
Shakspere, that he had "small Latin and less Greek" (see page 45). 

Jonson's fondness for classical learning may be inferred from the 
following story, if one understands that in his daj' a common name 
for brass was lattcn. "It is related that Shakspere was godfather to 
one of Ben Jonson's children, and said to his friend after the christen- 
ing, "I' faith, Ben, I'll e'en give him a dozen good latten spoons, and 
thou shalt translate them." Jonson wrote a book in which the laws 
of both Latin and English grammar were explained. 

Simplex Mltnditiis. This title may be rendered, ''artless in adorn- 
menl". It is dra\v-n from a Latin ode in which Horace describes a 
beautiful coquette. Naturally, Ben Jonson, being a great scholar, 
would use a Latin phrase for a title. Perhaps the phrase suggested 
the poem. 
still, ever, always. 

To THE Memory of my Beloved Master. How could the same 
pen produce this rugged metre, that flowed so smoothly in the lyrics 
which precede? But this blank verse is not all harsh; it contains many 
eloquent as well as wise and learned passages, and much material of 
interest to one who wants to know what Jonson thought of his in- 
timate friend, Shakspere. 
suffrage, vote. 

without a tomb, hence, living. 
great but disproportioned, Chaucer and Spenser were great, but not 

in Shakspere's "class." 
seek, lack. 

buskin tread, tragedy; socks, comedy, after the foot-gear of the actors 
in the old Creek drama. When the tragic hero was overwhelmed 
by fate, his fall seemed greater because he was such a gigantic 
person. The reverse was true in the outcome of a comedy. 
for the laurel, in place of the laurel. 
issue, children. 
shake a lance, a pun on Shakespere's name, and an old one, at that. 



Introductions and Notes 327 

banks of Thames, the Swan Theatre was on the south side of the 

Thames, at Banksidc. 
Eliza, Kiizabeth. 
James, James \T of Scothmd, who succeeded Elizabeth on England's 

throne. 
advanced, posted or set. 
Star of Poets, generous praise from one who, himself, occupied the 

position of greatest glory among the living dramatists of the 

time. 

GEORGE WITHER 

Sham, i, '>vasting in despair. In this declaration of independence, 
we have our first taste of the light, deft, gentlemanly verse of the 
Cavalier Poets. One sees clearly that the lover is not the sort to waste 
away in despair; and one is inclined to suspect that when the lady 
read his gaj' verses, she promptly assured him there was no reason 
why he should. In other words, there is a playfulness, an open un- 
reality or insincerity, about this type of \erse, vers de societe, that we 
find at once artificial and delightful. It represents only one side of 
\\'ither's poetry, however; he lived a long and varied life, and in 
politics and religion showed very interesting changes of front to the 
world as it advanced on its way from Elizabeth, through the Puritan 
period, to the Restoration. His eighty-two years were lived in an age 
of England's history that must have made them pass \ery swiftty. 
are, j^ronounced air. not only here but common!}- until the last 

century. 
silly, cmptv. 

\\TLLI.\M BROWNE 

Epitaph on the Countess. This compliment to the sister of Sir 
Philip Sidney is attributed with strong probability to William Browne, 
though it is far better known than he. The last line repeats the 
image, a favorite one in that age, of the death of Death. 
sable hearse, black pall. 

ROBERT HERRICK 

Herrick was the greatest of the disciples of Ben Jonson among the 
lyrical poets. His work had power as well as grace, and religious 
ferxor as well as social charm. Stopford Brooke says, "Herrick was 



328 



Introductions and Notes 



the most remarkable of those who at this time sat below the mountain 
top on which Milton was alone." 

To THE Virgins. A piece of advice put in the light and gracious 
form which was in vogue in the time of Charles I. 

Delight in Dlsorder, a different treatment of the same thought as 
Ben Jonson'^ Simplex Muuditiis. Which do you prefer? Julia's 
silk dress afforded an occasion for another bit of vers dc soeiete. 
wantonness, wilfulness. 
erring, wandering. 
enthrals, embraces. 
stomacher, bodice, or wide belt. 

To Anthea. a thrilling love song, especially when sung in its fine 
setting by Hatton. (Songs of England I). 
Protestant, I will protest, or swear, myself thine forever. 

GEORGE HERBERT 

George Herbert went from his native Wales to Trinity College, 
Cambridge, and then, as vicar, to the "more pleasant than healthful 
Bemerton." Here he lived in the love and reverence of the simple 
people of his parish, spread abroad the "sweet and serious learning 
of the 17th century," and, in particular, wrote many short poems. 

His volume of poems called The Temple contains one hundred and 
fifty numbers, compact with thought, and breathing a sincerity and a 
spirit of consecration unsurpassed in literature. The four numbers 
which represent Herbert in this collection are all drawn from The 
Temple. Observe the simplicity of their language, their strength, and 
the ingenuity of their thought. These qualities were calculated to 
appeal strongly to people in the so-called Puritan age, and they 
help us of the present time to appreciate Professor George Herbert 
Palmer's saying, that Herbert was "the first in English Poetry to 
talk face to face with God." 
angry and brave, red and splendid. 
the world's riches, literally, all man's for the asking, and no other 

creature's. 
Sorrow dogging sin, a perfect ideal of discipline in school or elsewhere, 
since only thus can our frail humanity acquire virtue — sorrow, 
like a clog, close on the heels of sin. 
cunning, .sly, taking us unaware. 

his tincture, its touch, that is, the touch of the Elixir. His for its 
was common. 



Introductions and Notes 329 

famous stone, the philosopher's stone, or elixir, which, when found, 

would turn base metal into gold. 
be told, be counted and hence valued (related to "tally"). 

EDMUND WALLER 

Waller was the first of that school of poets in the 17th century 
which prepared the way for Dryden and Pope. The fire and freedom 
of the Age of Elizabeth had diminished, and influences both native 
to England and brought in from France began to alter the type of 
poetry. It grew careful, cold, fine, and comparatively small. Waller's 
special contribution to this movement, which is called "classical," 
was the reproduction of Chaucer's heroic couplet, with a smoothness 
which made it tempting to every writer that followed him for more 
than a century — notably to Dryden, Pope and Goldsmith. 
pale, fence, or boundary, and hence sometimes the space enclosed 

within the fence. 
deer, a common and unworthy pun, but not as distressing to the ears 

of Waller's day as to ours. The Elizabethan looked upon a pun 

not as a joke to be smiled at, but as an ingenious use of words to 

be admired. 

JOHN MILTON 

The man, John Milton, appears in his writing in a more marked 
degree than any other poet of his age, except perhaps George Herbert. 
Even when he is deliberately representing a "character" as speaking, 
it is Milton's thought and feeling that find expression; and this is 
more true still in the five sonnets given below, where he speaks not 
dramatically, but directly. Observe, in the first, the young man's 
ideals; in the second, the eloquent praise of his political chief; in the 
third, the exultation of the Puritan over the devotion of the martyrs 
of Piedmont; in the fourth, the consolation for his terrible affliction, 
which he found in religion; in the last, the "proud humility" of a 
patriot, who knows how richly he has been paid in the coin of the 
soul for the sacrifice of his physical eyesight. To sum up the man of 
these five sonnets, then, we find lofty self-esteem, intense loyalty to 
ideas and to friends, and a faith in God as lasting and as deep as life 
itself. 

In form, the sonnets are an adaptation of the Italian type — the 
earliest in English poetry. It is worth while to note the oft-quoted 
phrase in the one on Cromwell, and the one on his blindness. Observe 



330 Introductions and Notes 

also in the one to Cyriack Skinner, the resolute Saxon passage be- 
ginning "Nor bate a jot of heart or hope," and the passage in which 
he exults over his foe in the recent international debate between the 
Commonwealth of England and the monarchies of Europe. His 
greatest works were written after he became blind — Paradise Lost, 
Paradise Regained, and Samson Agonisles. 

Milton was only eight years old when Shakspere died, and he was 
not born till James I had been five years on the English Throne; but 
he may properly be regarded as in certain respects one of the Eliz- 
abethan poets; he himself said he felt he had "been born an age too 
late." No better evidence of his kinship with the writers of the elder 
generation is needed than his Epitaph on Shakspere, especially the 
last two verses, which Shakspere himself might have written. But 
viewed in its larger aspects his genius had the freedom and originality, 
the sympathy with the great currents of contemporary life, the limit- 
less scope and energy, which characterize the Elizabethan Age. 
Milton differs from Shakspere and his fellow dramatists in being de- 
cidedly more a conscious artist — more seriously bent on being a great 
poet. This mood or attitude contrasts with the Elizabethan, in which 
the greatest feats, in every line of human activity, were performed 
without any apparent realization of their stupendous importance. 

Milton at twenty-three had just been advised to give up poetry as 
a life-work and go into the church. This sonnet is his answer. 
timely-happy, those whose age and maturity more clearly correspond. 
secular chains, state support for the clergy — a policj^ which both 

Milton and Cromwell opposed, as hostile to religious freedom, 
slaughtered saints, the Piedmontese Protestants were victims of the 

zeal of their Catholic ruler, the Duke of Savoy. 
triple Tyrant, the pope, who wore a triple crown called the tiara. 
babylonian woe, the evils associated with the rule of Rome, the mod- 
ern Babylon. See Revelation, chaps. XVII and XVTII. 
my light is spent, Milton became blind gradually, but probably 
totally lost his sight about 165.'. 

SIR JOHN SUCKLING 

Sir John Suckling was a gallant in every sense of the word, a witty, 
sprightly, and dashing companion, and a typical "Cavalier" poet. 
He pawned his estate to furnish King Charles with a troop of cavalry, 
and he rode to his death in Paris on an errand for his Queen. 
Prithee, short for, I pray thee. 



Introductions and Notes 331 



CAPTAIN RICHARD LOVELACE 

A courtier, rich, handsome, dashing, widely famous, and a true 
Cavalier, was Captain Richard Lovelace. His gallantry and com- 
radeship were of a finer order than Sir John Suckling's; and his verse, 
though not so witty, was far more beautiful. Each of the two ex- 
amples here given contains a passage universally quoted. Can you 
account for the popularit}' of each passage? [It is true, is it not, that 
a phrase passes into common use as a quotation because it is thought 
a particularly effective way to express an idea. It is also true that the 
idea itself must be one of general application, and that its expression 
must be brief or striking. What sort of passage is most likely to be 
quoted from the Bible? Try putting some of the everyday proverbs 
into a new form of words, say — "a rolling stone gathers no moss," 
or, "a fool and his money are soon parted." How did it happen that 
".\be" Lincoln acquired his great reputation for originality of speech, 
when the most marked feature of his conversation was his use of a 
never-failing supply of these common adages?] 

To A^TUKA, IROM Prison. The first thing to notice in this love- 
song is the central thought, which appears most plainly in the first two 
verses of the last stanza. That being the theme of the song, how is 
it expanded? What standard of liberty does the imprisoned soldier 
use in the opening stanza? He is as free as the fishes in the sea, in 
the second stanza; as the winds of heaven in the third; and as the 
angels above in the last. 

wanton in the air, do utterly as they will in the air. 
allaying Thames, diluting water. 
committed linnets, imprisoned, as Captain Lovelace was. He was 

guilty of having dared to present to Parliament a petition in 

behalf of King Charles. 



JOHN DRYDEN 

John Dryden was poet laureate to Charles II. He was born in 
the reign of Charles I, lived through the Commonwealth, then through 
the Restoration and the Revolution, and almost through the reign of 
William III, dying two years before Anne came to the throne. His 
position was eminent throughout these various fortunes of the state; 
and toward the close of his life, Dryden's talents, age, and political 
experience gave him the name and authority of literary dictator. 



332 Introductions and Notes 

He was called King Dryden, and the date of his death may be con- 
sidered a turning point in the literary history of England. 

The inscription for the Portrait of Milton is, of course, chiefly in- 
teresting as a tribute of the great Dryden to a contemporary poet, who 
might have called forth jealousy instead of admiration. It is also 
interesting ais an e.xample of the way in which Dryden handled that 
familiar medium of all the English poets from 1675 to 1775, — the 
"heroic couplet." Note the five beats, the "iambic" foot, the rhyme; 
but mark the vigor, reserve, and full content of the verse; for while 
outwardly this line and that of a hundred lesser writers are the same, 
it will be felt that Drj'den was master of the form, while some other 
poets were mastered by it, and so failed to fill it with themselves — 
their thought, their emotion, their personality. 
Three poets, Homer, Virgil, Milton. 

distant ages, distant not from Dr^^den (for Milton was Dryden's 
contemporary), but distant from one another. 

The two songs in honor of St. Cecilia, who invented the pipe- 
organ, were ten years apart in time, and equally distinct in treat- 
ment; while each is, of course, devoted to the same theme — the 
praise of music. 

MATTHEW PRIOR 

From three or four sentences in Johnson's Lives of the Poets we can 
draw a none too flattering impression of "Matt Prior." 

" Matthew Prior is one of those that have burst out from an obscure 
original to great eminence. His opinions, so far as the means of judg- 
ing are left us, seem to have been right; but his life was irregular, 
negligent, and sensual. Prior has written with great variety and his 
variety has made him popular. He has tried all styles, from the 
grotesque to the solemn, and has not so failed in any as to incur de- 
rision or disgrace. Whatever Prior obtains above mediocrity seems 
the effort of struggle and of toil. He has many vigorous but few happy 
lines; he has everything by purchase and nothing by gift; he has no 
nightly visitations of the Muse, no infusions of sentiment or felicities 
of fancy." 

JOSEPH ADDISON 

Addison, a profound admirer of Milton, was a greater essayist 
than poet, but he was skilful in handling the heroic couplet, and 
turned his skill to the service, on the whole, of useful ends. He was a 



Introductions and Notes 333 

mild and friendly spirit in an age of jealousy and bitter satire, and 
wrote more than one hymn of lofty and inspiring religious tone. The 
Spacious Firmament is sung to the music of the great German com- 
poser, Haydn. 

The extravagant compliment to Mira is intended to represent the 
silly verses tossed oft" by such poets of the time as ''Ned Softly." To 
enjoy its humor thoroughly one must read it in its setting in the 
Taller essay. No. 163. 

ISAAC WATTS 

Watts was not a poet who could be called great, though a volu- 
minous writer of prose and verse, especially of hymns. He is often 
quoted — his talent was broad, not high. At an early age (before six) 
Watts's poetical genius developed itself; and along with Milton and 
Pope, he may be said to have "lisped in numbers." It was a custom 
with his mother to engage her husband's pupils after school hours in 
writing her some verses, for which she used to reward them with a 
farthing. When little Watts's turn came to exercise his gift for the 
first time, he furnished the following couplet: 

"I write not for a farthing, but to tr>' 
How I your farthing writers can outvie." 

Here are two examples of "didactic" verse, so called because thej^ 
teach a certain virtue. What familiar lines in these two poems? How 
old should a boy be to outgrow the reed of such lessons? 

]\Iany of the most beautiful old hymns in every modern hymn-book 
were written by this quaint, strong, sincere, old-fashioned clergyman, 
perhaps the best known of " Dissenters." What qualities do you note 
in the hymn given here to justify its use, year after year, by people 
whose point of \iew is quite at \-ariance with Dr. Watts's? Is its 
secret of continued usefulness to be found in its language? In its 
imagery? Its rhythm? Its religious elevation? Is there a single 
current of thought running through its seven stanzas, or could one be 
omitted without loss? 

.\L!:XA.\I)ER POPK 

Pope is to be admired for his wit and his persistent devotion to the 
art of poetry. He is to be pitied liecause he was an unhappy person, 
diseased in bod}' and soul, and torn between the best he knew and 



334 Introductions and Notes 

the poor best he could be and do. He had no small capacity for reli- 
gious aspiration, as may be seen in his Universal Prayer; for 
humor untouched by rancour, as in the inscription he put on the 
collar of the dog he presented to the Duke of Buckingham; for the 
grace of sincere compliment, as in On a CertaIxN Lady at Court. 
But how far apart in sweetness of spirit are the two views of Addison, 
twenty years apart in time ! The last, in the epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, 
shows why the little fellow in his grotto on the banks of the Thames 
has been called the "Asp of Twickenham." 

After all, the thing about Pope we must not allow to be forgotten 
is that he was the most exquisite poet of his age. If you want to 
understand this saying in a thorough and delightful way, read The 
Rape of the Lock, which space alone excluded from this collection. 

HENRY CAREY 

The Maiden's Ideal of a Husband contrasts sharply with the 
crude but hearty views of the apprentice about an ideal wife. But 
the song of Sally has been sung since the Seventeenth Century, and 
is a fine song yet. 

JAiMES THOMSON 

Rule, Britannia is patriotic to the extreme which in modern 
times is called jingoism. It is perhaps natural that the national note 
should have changed since Thomson's time, because what he was 
ambitious for has come to pass, and far more than he dreamed of as a 
possible expansion of British power. But it has changed also because 
a higher ideal of power has taken possession of the British imagina- 
tion, as may be seen in the Recessional of Kipling, page 292. 

SAMUEL JOHNSON 

The mighty lexicographer writing playful quatrains is something 
like a hippopotamus dancing. But he is very fine in his lament on 
the death of the old doctor Robert Levet, whom he harbored in his 
hospitable home for years. The poem shows rough-coated old John- 
son in his native largeness of heart and tenderness of Christian sym- 
pathy. By way of realizing what a difference the point of view may 
make, notice that Macaulay, in his Life of Johnson, describes Dr. 
Levet in the following terms: "An old quack doctor named Levet, 
who bled and dosed coal-heavers and hackney coachmen, and re- 



Introductions and Notes 335 

ceivcd for fees crusts of bread, bits of bacon, glasses of gin, and some- 
times a little copper." If you were thinking of writing a poem, should 
you dare to try your talents on a subject as unpromising as that? 
Yet Johnson succeeded. Was it his feeling or his art that made 
success possible? 

THOMAS GRAY 

Here we have the most important Eighteenth Century poet who 
broke away from the classical rules binding the most of his con- 
temporaries. The Age of Classicism was formal; Gray thought more 
of the "spirit," and less of the "letter," and consequently produced 
a "letter" which has lived. 

The Elegy. This is especially true of his immortal Elegy, a poem 
not easy for a young student to grasp in its detail, but richly worth his 
while to study, to understand, and even to learn by heart. 
stillness is subject, not object of holds. 
glebe, turf. 
jocund, jolly. 

trophies raise, as was common in the churches. The Henry VII 

chapel in Westminster Abbey is still hung thick with battle-flags. 

fretted vault, the arched ceiHng, with Gothic carvings laced upon its 

surface. 
Storied urn, an urn with an inscription or picture upon its sides. 
animated bust, lifelike statue. 
provoke, call forth. 
pregnant, full. 

waked to ecstasy, etc., become a great poet, 
the spoils of time, history. 
noble rage, ambition. 
Hampden, who withstood Charles I. 

heap the shrine, etc., flatter the rich and proud with poetical ad- 
dresses. 
madding, raging. 
sequestered, separated, remote. 
tenor, course. 
uncouth, crude. 
hoary-headed, gray. 

On the Death of a Favorite Cat. To those who know Gray only 
in his Elegy, the delicate humor which he displays in this poem will 
prove a pleasant surprise. 



336 



Introductions and Notes 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH 



Goldsmith, beloved of Garrick, Burke, Johnson, and the beautiful 
Miss Horneck, the " Jessamy Bride," was the ne'er-do-well of British 
poets, who really believed it "more blessed to give than to receive," 
who "wrote Kke an angel and talked like poor Poll," and who wrote 
himself and his humorous experiences into many forms of literature. 
The Vicar of Wakefield was his novel; She Stoops to Conquer, his great 
play; The Traveler and the Deserted Village, his serious poems. But 
his own portrait, awkward, unsuccessful, cheerful, lovable, is uncon- 
sciously painted in each. 

The Elegy on the De.\th of a Mad Dog was sung to the family 
gathering at the Vicar's, by rosy-cheeked Bill Primrose at his reverend 
father's request. 

Little Bill: "Which song do you choose. The Dying Swan, or the 
Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog?" 

The Vicar: "The Elegy, child, by all means. And Deborah, my life, 
you know grief is dry; let us have a bottle of the best gooseberry 
wine, to keep up our spirits." Then, when the song is over, " A very 
good boy. Bill, upon my word; and an Elegy that may truly be called 
tragical. Come, my children, here's Bill's health, and may he one 
day be a bishop!" 

WILLIAM COWPER 

Cowper was another pioneer of the modern movement of his age 
in poetical form. Such men as Cowper and Gray are called Roman- 
ticists, because they rebelled, mildly or violently, as may be, against 
classicism, or the rule of accepted custom. The romanticists of one 
age may come to seem very conventional to the ej'es of a later time. 
Is there not in our day a freedom of versification far beyond that of 
Gray and Cowper? 

BoADiCEA and On the Loss of the Royal George are poems 
which reflect in their simplicity and sympathy the mood which was 
usual in Cowper in his daily experience. But this habitual depression 
was delightfully interrupted by rays of tender joy, and even of rol- 
licking fun. Of these periods of relief the Epitaph on a Hare illustrates 
one mood, and the Diverting History of John. Gilpin, another. 



Introductions and Notes 337 



CHARLES DIBDIN 

A famous writer of sea-songs, of which two are given below. The 
music, also Dibdin's, to which they are set, is as much in character as 
the words themselves. So it is not to be wondered at that they have 
been sung with pleasure for generations. 

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN 

The brilliant, irresponsible, romantic beau, politician, orator, and 
dramatist, — bosom-friend of the Prince who finally became George 
IV. This little quatrain of the clever Irishman is of interest chiefly 
because it shows Fox "broke" as usual, and because it shows North 
witty as usual. 

WILLIAM BLAKE 

There is no more interesting personality among the poets of his age 
than William Blake; 3'et it is difficult to tell why. To say that he was 
tender-hearted to the point of fanaticism, does not give the right 
impression; nor to call his writings wonderful, and his paintings still 
more so; nor to enumerate other traits or accomplishments. There is 
something in the man, as he lived his seventy varied years in London, 
that convinces us of his genius, aside from anything he did or said. 
It is partly that everything he did or said was accompanied by an 
intense, a burning, sincerity. Before he became impressed with the 
sin and sorrow of the world he wrote the Songs of Innocence with 
unquestioning faith and hope. After the bitter fate of most of man- 
kind was revealed to him in the life of London, he put forth the Songs 
of Experience, with a corresponding desolation of heart, — with awe, 
grief, and a tremulous sympathy. .\ glance at the two poems will 
illustrate the contrasting states of mind and heart in this great nature 
of his. 

ROBERT BURNS 

Many are the phases of genius in this .Ayrshire ploughman that we 
cannot touch on here. He was not only by nature one of the greatest 
men; he was one of the very greatest writers of songs in all the world. 
His soul was a singing soul. The first six songs given below are love- 
songs: the first, passionate; the second, placid; the third, pathetic; 
the fourth, the address of an ancient wife to her dear old husband; 



338 



Introductions and Notes 



the fifth, winsome; the sixth, tragic. Then comes that cry of the soul 
of one, who, pitying the misfortune of the "wee beastie," gets be- 
trayed into a reflection on the greater ruin of his own life. There are 
those who find the next poem, For a' Thai, somewhat hollow and 
boastful on the part of Honest Poverty. But such a one misses the 
rare thrill that, comes from taking Burns at his simple word. The 
men of wealth and rank are apt to be the first to agree with the poet 
that simple manhood is the greatest thing. 

My Heart's in the Highlands pulsates with that thought of life 
in the open, the free, and the familiar which cheers us through the 
winter's work. Not many of us could express our memories and fan- 
cies and longings with such a swift torrent of words. 

AuLD Lang Syne is commonly sung at the breaking up of a 
gathering of friends. It has been well pointed out that it is a forward- 
looking song, particularly fit to be sung at the beginning of a reunion 
of old cronies. Sung first or last, it is the all but universal language 
of loyal friendship. 

In Macpherson's Farewell we have a doughty Highland hero, 
overtaken at last by his political foe, and doomed to die on the 
"gallows-tree." With his bag-pipes he "dauntingly" played, and 
sang and danced, alone, to his own music. Such desperate courage 
deserved a better fate. 

Another "true " poem, about a whole army of just such proud Scots 
as Macpherson, is found in the address of the younger Bruce, who 
fought his way to the Scottish crown. The stirring power of these 
lines would rouse the fighting blood of any man, especially when 
sung to their well-known tune. 
airts, directions. 
row, roll. 
shaw, thicket. 
fause, false. 
wist, knew. 
ilka, ever)'. 
staw, stole. 
jo, sweetheart. 
brent, smooth. 
pow, poll, head. 
canty, happy. 
bide, endure, 
stour, struggle. 
yestreen, yestere'en, last night. 



Introductions and Notes 339 

faut, fault. 

drumlie, muddy. 

birk, birch. 

bickering, flickering. 

brattle, scamper. 

laith, loath. 

pattle, paddle (carried to clean the plough). 

whiles, sometimes. 

daimen icker in a thrave, an occasional spear of grain in two dozen 

sheaves. 
lave, rest. 
silly, empty. 
wa's, walls. 
big, build. 

foggage, grass grown up after the mowing. 
snell, sharp. 
coulter, cutter. 
But, without. 
hald, hold, refuge. 
thole, endure. 
cranreuch, hoarfrost. 
a-gley, wrong. 
hodden-gray, homespun. 
birkie, smartie, stuck-up young fellow. 
coof, coward. 
ribbon, star, showing that he is a Knight of the Garter — a nobleman 

particularly honored by the king. 
maunna fa', must not lay claim to. 
bear the gree, win the prize. 
roe, the red deer. 

straths, river-bottoms, broad valleys. 
wild-hanging, hanging over wild places. 
auld lang syne, old long-past time. 
pint-stoup, pint-measure. 
braes, hills. 
pou'd, pulled. 
gowans, daisies. 
fit, foot. 
bum, brook. 
dine, dinner. 
braid, broad. 



340 Introductions and Notes 

fiere, companion. 

gie's, give us. 

guid-willie waught, health. 

sturt, trouble. 

distain, stain. ^ 

rantingly, withl)oisterous gaiety. 

wantonly, recklessly. 

dauntingly, daringly. 

low, lower. 

LADY NAIRNE 

Caroline Oliphant, Lady Nairne, was a famous Scotch beauty. She 
wrote many plaintive songs. The Land o' the Leal, Caller Herrin', 
and Will ye no come back again? are especially familiar, in their melo- 
dious settings, to all lovers of Scotch minstrelsy. The Laird o' 
CocKPEN exhibits her gift of that kind of humor which is akin to 
pathos. 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 

Wordsworth lived eighty years. He followed Southey as Laureate. 
His young manhood was marked by two very significant things: 
he was an ardent sympathizer with the European movement for 
liberty which culminated in the French Revolution; and he brought 
out with Coleridge in 1 79S a volume of poems called Lyrical Ballads, 
in which was expounded a new theory of poetry. The idea was that 
poetry called for simple themes treated in simple words, the language 
and the imagery of every day. Wordsworth's "Revolutionary" 
spirit soon evaporated, and he became staid, domestic, rural, devoted 
to his mountains and his lakes, and the human interests that they 
contain. But he never got far away from his youthful theory of 
great poetry in small words. Sometimes he kept to the simple lan- 
guage and fell short of the great thought. But in most of his lyrics, 
there is a purity of feeling and a majesty of utterance that appeal 
to his readers as admirable and moving. 

The Solitary Reaper gives what was doubtless one of Words- 
worth's actual experiences on his walk through the hills of Scotland. 
But there is, as almost always, not only the relation of what the trav- 
eler saw and heard; there is also what followed the sight and sound, 
in the poet's mind. Experience and reflection — that is Wordsworth's 
favorite process, and it is a process worth the reader's while to share. 



Introductions and Notes 341 

Site Was a Phantom of Delight, stanzas, giving in order, three 
views of the same woman — his sweetheart, his bride, and the wife 
of his old age. Do you find any \'erses delicately suggestive of Mrs. 
Wordsworth's appearance? Any of her character? Any one less 
beautiful than the rest? 

The five Sonnets are selected from many. The first is an attempt 
on the part of the "Lake Poet" to feel the life of the city. Perhaps it 
is natural that it is the sleeping city that appeals to his imagination. 
Wordsworth and Charles Lamb were dear friends — a queer pair — 
and Lamb understood through and through the living London which 
to Wordsworth was largely a closed book, while Lamb had to confess 
that he on his part could not read the book of Nature. 

The sonnet on Milton and that on the Two Voices of liberty, 
belong to the patriotic period of Wordsworth's life. His Sonnet to 
Sleep is very different from that of Sidney. And how completely 
The World is too Much with Us illustrates the poet's reverence for 
Nature ! 

It is one of the curiosities of literature that Wordsworth had no ear 
for music, — could not tell one tune from another. Yet he read in a 
musical voice, as well as with deep feeling and earnest thought. 
Mrs. Hemans says, "When he reads or recites in the open air, his 
deep, rich tones seem to harmonize with the thrilling tones of woods 
and waterfalls." 

SYDNEY SMITH 

Sydney Smith was a witty clergyman, universally popular, even 
greatly loved, first in his country parish, then in the high circles of 
London life. 

SIR WALTER SCOTT 

Picturesque, romantic, friendly yet proud of his blood, writing 
poetry for love of the art and the local tradition, a superb horseman, 
and a lover of horses and of dogs, a passionate antiquarian, the most 
hospitable of entertainers, the most simple of great men — this was 
the man. Sir Walter. But to England in his time, and to America, 
too, he was the "Wizard of the North," the writer whose pen was a 
magic wand wherewith the beauty and the marvel of the past were 
made to live again. When, in 1814, he turned from making three 
long narrative poems, Mannion, The Lady of the Lake, and The Lay 
of the Last Minstrel, the name he had won would have contented 



342 Introductions and Notes 

any other man. But under a new and different creative impulse he 
produced a series of novels, mostly Scottish in theme and color, which 
dwarfed his fame as a poet. 

LocHiNVAR is a galloping ballad (though not in true ballad metre) 
with events, characters, and dialogue tumbling over one another so 
fast that the -young bride is snatched away before our very eyes. 
Do you catch the spirit of romance that stirred Sir Walter? Do you 
perceive how pleased he was with the aristocratic names of the Border 
Clans? 

When you read Proud Maisie, don't fail to remember that people 
in Scott's day pronounced "early" "airly." Pronounce it so, and it 
will rhyme with "rarely." Remember also that "braw " is "brave," 
one of many French words in Scotch. This little story gets its pathos 
from what is left out almost as much as from what is said. 

RosABELLE has the same tragic theme as Proud Maisie, — the death 
of a young girl; but it is altogether a different story, and told by a 
different method. Is it more or less moving, to you, than the other? 

This passage from the Lay of the Last Minstrel is in Scott's strongest 
manner. It is sincere, compressed, eloquent. You will remember 
how dramatically it is used by Edward Everett Hale in his Man With- 
out a Country. 

The marching song of the "Blue Bonnets" is a lighter song than 
the dead-earnest Scots wha' ha'e, but is it not stirring to the blood? 
Is not the metre in the first line a perfect marching metre, and in the 
second does it not break in sympathy with the unfortunate recruit 
who's out of step? Does the air vibrate as you read it? If not, read 
it again till it does. The consonants, especially the hard c's, the 
rough r's, and the \'igorous b's, are characteristic of the spirit of the 
leader, and of the rugged country and occasion. 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 

To one who knows what an endless talker Coleridge was, his 
Epigram on an epigram must seem remarkable. He has employed 
the same sort of cleverness in the lines which follow, which illustrate, 
verse by verse, the very feet of which he is giving the definition. It 
is a happy thought also which represents each foot as moving, one in 
one rate and gait, another in another. Of course this Metrical Lesson 
must be read aloud to be appreciated, and really deserves to be mem- 
orized by any one who wants to learn the queer Greek names for 
different types of metre. 



Introductions and Notes 343 

The Greek names for various metrical feet are generally interpreted 
as follows, a long mark meaning in English a syllable accented, not 
necessarily prolonged: 

Trochee _[_ kj 

Spondee / 

Dactyl / ., K,, 
Iambus ^ _l_ 
Anapcst ^ ^ J_ 
Amphibrach ^ _!_ ^ 
Amphimacer ^ _J_ 

His sonnet, Work without Hope, is a true reflection of the terrible 
sadness of Coleridge's life, that tragedy self-wrought, but dragging 
others in its ruin through the use of opium. 

KuBLA Khan. There is an ancient Greek legend which will help in 
the study of this poem, — the legend of the river Alpheus. This 
river of southern Greece does actually disappear into the sand of 
Olympia. It is also true that there is a noble fountain in the island 
of Sicily. To the Greek imagination the fountain is the river re- 
appearing. Coleridge locates his pleasure dome on the river as it 
flows through its "Caverns measureless to man," and you will see, 
when you reach Shelley, that other uses were made of the legend by 
other poets. The legend may have for everybody this symbolic 
meaning — the triumphant rise of Greek literature, art, and science, 
in Sicily, after war had crushed it in Greece proper and driven it 
into e.xile. 

Kubla Khan was described by Coleridge himself as a fragment. 
It is chiefly interesting from having been written with great swiftness 
as Coleridge came out from the influence of an anodyne, having 
dreamed as he slept of far more wonders, even, than are here set forth; 
for he was interrupted in his recording of them by a call from a 
prosaic visitor. Scenes and melodious lines alone do not make a great 
poem, but they do in this case reveal a genius for writing that should 
have produced many great poems. The Ancient Mariner is certainly 
one. 

ROBERT SOUTHEY 

Southcy was a great reader; he bought so many books that he had 
no money left for clothes; he was a great toiler with his pen, in both 
prose and poetry; he was devoted to his family, his friends, and the 



344 Introductions and Notes 

simple pleasures of life; he loved nonsense and a merry time, but was 
far from being a genius, though he was "Laureate to the king." 

The Cataract of Lodore is not in the high sense a poem. Why? 
Yet could you make such a composition? Is there any part of it that is 
more poetical than another? Are you convinced that there was a 
good deal of commotion in the waters of Lodore? 

My Days Among the Dead are Passed, on the other hand, is a 
beautiful poem, simple, sincere, restrained in its expression, imagina- 
tive, true; the "dead" being, of course, the authors whose "mighty 
minds" he "conversed with day by day" in their precious books. 

BLANCO WHITE 

Blanco White gave up his priesthood in the Romish Church of 
Spain and became an English Protestant. He was a writer and an 
editor, but produced nothing of permanent interest except the sonnet 
To Night. This one sonnet is universally thought one of the finest in 
the language. 

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR 

Landor was a Rugby boy. At sixteen he left school after a fierce 
quarrel with the headmaster. About what, do you think? The 
quantity of a Latin syllable. And the queerest thing about the affair 
was that Landor was right, and the headmaster wrong! All his life 
he was contesting something with somebody, and was generally right, 
too. But sometimes he was grossly and absurdly wrong, and finallj' 
he had to leave England, and live in Italy, because his temper had 
betrayed him into such lawless violence. 

Whether wrong or right, he was alive and active for ninety years. 
He looked like a lion; his "words were thunder and lightning;" his 
laughter, tremendous; his jokes, affections, and outbursts of wrath, 
"Olympian;" in his attitude toward women he was chivalrj' in- 
carnate. "Landor was above all an artist and a man of letters, but 
there was an heroic temper in his work." There is humor (uncon- 
scious), truth, and pathos in the Httle quatrain in which he summed 
up his own life : 

I strove with none; for none was worth my strife. 
Nature I loved, and, next to Nature, Art. 
I warmed both hands before the fire of life; 
It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 



Introductions and Notes 345 



THOMAS CAMPBELL 

Campbell at fifty was Lord Rector of Glasgow University. One 
day on his way to the lecture-room he came upon his class in the 
campus pelting each other with snowballs. He joined in both heartily 
and skilfully, and then led the students to the hall and began his 
address. The poet spoke broad Scotch, wrote with great slowness 
and diffidence, devoted himself to the cause of any unfortunate people, 
especially the Poles, and, like many of his poetical contemporaries, is 
said to have had no ear for music. What is the evidence of his IjtIcs 
on this point? 

Hohenhnden was not far from Munich. Here the Austrians (Huns) 
lost a great battle to the French (Franks). Campbell visited the 
scene soon after. 

THOMAS MOORE 

"Tom Moore," as he was affectionately called, was an Irishman 
who made his home in London; wrote songs, mostly Irish, altogether 
sentimental; and sang them in the drawing-rooms of London's society 
ladies in a way that was greatly moving to an Early Victorian com- 
pany. Moore, himself, was sometimes so affected by his own per- 
formance, as to break down and burst into tears. As a man, he had a 
harmless vanity that was not displeasing; as a conversationalist, he 
was graceful and witty; as a writer of prose, he was known for his 
excellent lives of Lord Byron and Thomas Brinsley Sheridan. 

Moore's songs, like other songs, reveal much of their beauty only 
when read aloud or sung. The melodies of almost all Moore's songs 
are his own. How appropriate they were may be judged from the 
most familiar of them all, — The Last Rose of Summer. His music for 
Believe me if all those endearing young charms is known to us all as 
the tune of Fair Harvard. 

Tara's Halls were on Tara's Hill, not far from Dublin, the tradi- 
tional abode of the Irish kings. 

JANE TAYLOR 

Jane Taylor was a member of a peculiar family. It was a common 
saying among the neighbors, that any Taylor could write poetr\'. 
Jane and her sister Ann did not attain as much prominence as their 
brother Isaac, but their work has lasted and his is forgotten. Twinkle, 
T'd'inkle, little Star, for cxami>le, is a very tiny classic, but it will 
shine on forever. 



346 



Introductions and Notes 



ALLAN CUNNINGHAM 



Anyone else had as much right as Allan Cunningham to expect to 
write an English sea-song which should live. He was a Scotch 
stonemason — but he became a poet. 

LEIGH HUNT 

When Leigh Hunt was a schoolboy, his prose themes were so bad 
that the master used to crumple them up in his hand, and throw 
them to the boys for their amusement. Not a very promising begin- 
ning for a literary career! Yet he became a successful man of letters, 
and throughout a long life was as much enjoyed as a companion and 
loved as a friend as any other man in England. Fancy him — very tall 
and straight, with face long and highly expressive, and hair black 
and plentiful. He was still the same at eighty, except that his hair 
had become snowy white. To the end of his life he was cheery, com- 
panionable, unpractical, and a walker who thought nothing of twenty 
miles. He was the best of friends to Keats, and to many, many other 
men of letters. 

The Glove and the Lions had its model in Schiller's poem telling 
the same story; and it became in turn, the model for Browning to 
follow, with his own kind of humor, in The Glove. 

BARRY CORNWALL 

Barry Cornwall was very handy with his fists. He made a name in 
the pugilistic art while at Harrow, and afterward went on a journey to 
meet the " Game Chicken," a well-known professional boxer. But he 
was noted during his long life for gentleness rather than pugnacity, 
and for an extraordinary tender sympathy for all whom he could serve. 
"No one who has passed an hour in the company of Charles Lamb's 
' dear boy ' can ever lose the impression made upon him b)^ that simple, 
sincere, shy and delicate soul" {Coventry Patmore). 

GEORGE GORDON BYRON 

Byron's character and manners have l)een portrayed by various 
friends and enemies so variously that it is almost impossible to fix the 
mind upon a composite portrait and call that the true Lord Byron; 



Introductions and Notes 347 

for it is evident that "'both the censure and the praise are merited." 
He was brave, magnanimous and gracious, but also superstitious, 
petty, and vain. He had tremendous passions, both good and vicious, 
such conceit as to destroy his sense of humor, but flashes of patriotism 
and other noble sentiments as brilliant as the dazzling verse in which 
he meets our eye. He was a lover of horses, and an expert swimmer, 
though with a deformed foot. His face had a beauty and his ex- 
pression a charm recognized by friends and foes alike. A story of 
his school days at Harrow will serve to illustrate the disposition of 
the man. 

"While Lord Byron and Mr. Peel were at Harrow together, a 
tyrant some few years older . . . claimed a right to fag little Peel, 
which claim (whether rightly or wrongly I know not) Peel resisted. 

His resistance, however, was in vain; not only subdued him, but 

determined also to punish the refractory slave; and proceeded forth- 
with to put his determination in practice, by inflicting a kind of 
bastinado on the inner fleshy side of the boy's arm, which, during the 
operation, was twisted around with some degree of technical skill, to 
render the pain more acute. While the stripes were succeeding each 
other and poor Peel writhing under them, Byron saw and felt for the 
misery of his friend; and although he knew that he was not strong 
enough to fight with any hope of success, and that it was dangerous 

even to approach -, he advanced to the scene of action, and with a 

blush of rage, tears in his eyes, and a voice trembling between terror 

and indignation asked very humbly if would be pleased to tell 

him, "how many stripes he meant to inflict." "Why," returned the 
executioner, "you little rascal, what is that to you?" "Because, if 
you please," said Byron, "I would take half." 

The Destruction of Sennacherib. Look up the Biblical account 
in II Chronicles, xxxii, 2, for the best story; and II Kings, xix, 35, for 
the most startling. 
Ashur, Assyria. 

The Eve of Waterloo. This selection and the following one are 
taken from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, the story of a childe, or prince, 
on a search through the world for adventure and experience. The Eve 
of Waterloo and The Ocean both reveal the traveler's interest in nature 
and in humanity; but nature is emphasized in one passage, and human 
nature in the other. 

She Walks in Beauty, I like to think, shows Byron at his purest 
and best. It is one of a series of beautiful lyrics entitled Hebreiv 
Melodies. 



348 



Introductions and Notes 



On Chillon, if compared with Lovelace's To Althea will yield a 
clear view of several points in which the poets differed, and the ages in 
which they lived. Chillon is a name to stir the heart of any man who 
hates fetters — of soul or body. 



CHARLES WOLFE 

Wolfe was a gifted Irish clergyman. Sir John Moore died in Jan- 
uary, 1809, after a victorious skirmish with the French at Corunna, 
a fortified city on the Northwestern coast of Spain. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

Shelley, when he was a boy, had a passion for chemistry, for climb- 
ing high and perilous places, and for sailing paper boats. Once, hav- 
ing at hand no other material, he made a boat of a fifty-pound note. 
Fortunately after an eventful voyage the costly craft was brought 
safe to shore. When he was interested in study or in writing, he for- 
got to eat or sleep, and when he was in danger, as of drowning, he 
was devoid of all sense of fear. He wouldn't put up with coarseness or 
bullying in anyone about him, either in college or in later life; and his 
generosity was unparalleled, even in a society of generous men. He 
and Leigh Hunt were intimate friends. Landor, who knew him well, 
says: "Innocent and careless as a boy, he possessed all the delicate 
feelings of a gentleman, all the discrimination of a scholar, and united, 
in just degrees, the ardor of the poet with the patience and forbear- 
ance of the philosopher. His generosity and charity went far beyond 
those of any man (I believe) at present in existence. He was never 
known to speak evil of any enemy, unless that enemy had done some 
grievous injustice to another; and he divided his income of only one 
thousand pounds with the fallen and the afBicted. This is the man 
against whom such clamors have been raised by the religious and the 
loyal, and by those who live and lap under their tables." 

"As a lyric poet, Shelley, on his own ground, is easily great. Some 
of the lyrics are purely personal; some, as in the very finest, the Ode 
lo the West Wind, mingle together personal feeling and prophetic 
hope for mankind. Some are lyrics of pure nature; some are dedi- 
cated to the rebuke of tyranny and the cause of liberty; others belong 
to the indefinite passion he called love, and others are written on 
visions of those shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses. They 



Introductions and Notes 349 

form together the most sensitiv-e, the most imaginative, and the most 
musical, but the least tangible lyrical poetry we possess." 

"He wants the closeness of grasp of nature which Wordsworth 
and Keats had, but he had the power in a far greater degree than 
they of describing the cloud-scenery of the sky, the doings of the great 
sea, and \ast realms of landscape. He is in this, as well as in his eye 
for subtle colour, the Turner of poetry. What he might have been 
we cannot tell, for at the age of thirty he left us, drowned in the sea 
he loved, washed up and burned on the sandy spits near Pisa. His 
ashes lie beneath the walls of Rome, and Cor Cordium, 'Heart of 
Hearts,' written on his tomb, well says what all who love poetry feel 
when they think of him." 

To A Skyl.^rk should be read for its music and its mounting fancies; 
not, like some other poems, for its meaning to the intellect, so much as 
for its sensuous beauty, beauty of sight and sound, and for the chance 
it gives everybod}' to forget earth, for once, and "float and run like an 
embodied joy " in a new element, the air. It should divide with The 
Cloud, which follows, the honor of being the favorite poem of all air- 
pilots. The Cloud has been called by a discerning critic the "most 
gorgeous poem in the English language." 

Arethus.'V is the Fountain loved by Alpheus, the Arcadian river 
which we followed underground in Kuhla Khan. Enna's mountains 
are in Sicih\ If you wish to draw comparisons between a perfect 
work of art and what is called a tour de force, set Arclhusa and 
Southey's Lodore side by side. 

OzYM.^NDi.AS has more pictorial power than many a poem of ten 
times its length. In reading it remember that the verb survive has 
two grammatical objects, hand and heart, in the following verse. 

Ode to the West Wind. This is metrically one of the most inter- 
esting of poems. It is an example of an Italikn form called terza rima. 
Observe how the second verse of every stanza introduces a rhyme 
which becomes dominant in the following stanza. 

In its exaltation and its cries of pain and hope, this Ode is more than 
merely a sincere expression of a passing mood; it is the soul of Shelley, 
confessing, aspiring, and almost communing — a strange occupation 
for a young man who had been expelled from college as an atheist. 

MRS. HEMANS 

By no means a great poet, Mrs. Hemans wrote over twelve hun- 
dred octavo pages — plays, occasional verse, translations from many 



350 Introductions and Notes 

tongues, and much poetry of the so-called didaclic variety, — that 
which teaches a lesson. 

Casablanca was Napoleon's Admiral of the Orient. At the Battle 
of the Nile, mortally wounded, he gave orders for his ship to be 
blown up rather than captured by Nelson. "The Boy" was thirteen 
years old. ■ v 

JOHN KEATS 

Shelley's life was shorter than Byron's; but Keats's was shorter than 
Shelley's. Moreover, his origin was so humble that we must be sur- 
prised that one could build so high in so few years from so low founda- 
tions. Shelley and Byron had blood, familj' traditions, and education 
on their side; Keats largely lacked them all, and health as well. 

Leigh Hunt, his friend, wrote, "Keats, when he died, had Just com- 
pleted his five-and- twentieth year. He was under the middle height; 
and his lower limbs were small in comparison with the upper, but 
neat and well-turned. His shoulders were very broad for his size; 
he had a face in which energy and sensibility were remarkably mixed 
up: an eager power, checked and made patient by ill health. Every 
feature was at once strongly cut, and delicately alive. If there was 
any faulty expression it was in the mouth, which was not without 
something of a character of pugnacity. The face was rather long than 
otherwise; the upper lip projected a little over the under; the chin was 
bold, the cheeks sunken; the eyes mellow and glowing; large, dark, 
and sensitive. At the recital of a noble action, or a beautiful thought, 
they would suffuse with tears, and his mouth trembled. In this 
there was ill health as well as imagination, for he did not like these 
betrayals of emotion; and he had great personal as well as moral 
courage. He once chastised a butcher, who had been insolent, by 
a regular stand-up fight. His hair, of a brown color, was fine, and hung 
in natural ringlets." 

The Mermaid Tavern was the resort of Shakspere, Ben Jonson, 
and the great though lesser wits of their acquaintance. 

The Grasshopper and the Cricket was written in a spirit of 
competition with Leigh Hunt's. Which should you call the winner? 



HARTLEY COLERIDGE 

Hartley Coleridge was the son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and 
therefore it is not surprising to find him, on one hand, a highly gifted 



Introductions and Notes 351 

writer, and on Ihc other, a pathetic ligure, both physically and mor- 
ally; for he inherited not only the genius of his father but his morbid 
desire for stimulants. 

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL 

A Scottish editor, who wrote a volume or two of poems. How does 
The Cavalier's Song compare with Browning's, in degree of reality? 
Which would be more likely to stir the blood and make for the suc- 
cess of the cause? 

SAMUEL LOVER 

A clever Irishman, who had success in three lines of art; he painted 
good portraits and wrote readable novels and verse. I wonder whether 
he is half as well known as his oft quoted character, Rory O'Moore. 

THOMAS HOOD 

Tom Hood was a great practical joker — one who could perpetrate 
jokes amusing even to the victim. There was no end to his cheerful- 
ness, as the following incident will prove : " In his last illness, reduced, 
as he was, to a skeleton, he noticed a large mustard-plaster which 
Mrs. Hood was making for him, and exclaimed, "O, Mary, Mary, that 
will be a great deal of mustard to a very little meat!" His very last 
joke is said to have been an expression of satisfaction that he was at 
last "helping the undertaker to earn a liveli-hood." 

He was a man of exquisite taste and deep sentiment; fond of chil- 
dren and children's fun; generous and tender to a fault towards those 
in pain or poverty; and brave and cheery in his acceptance of these 
calamities when they befell himself. His wit was free from bitterness, 
his humor unfailing, irresistible, and accompanied by true pathos. 

Ruth is a beautiful poem partly because the Book of Ruth in the 
Bible is so beautiful. 

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 

Macaulay was one of the most gifted and versatile Englishmen of 
the 19th century. He crowded into less than sixty years an immense 
amount of writing, both prose and poetry, eminent services to the 
State, and a daily life full of "deeds of kindness and of love " to his 
familv and his friends. He was the brilliant debater of the House of 



352 Introductions and Notes 

Commons, a tireless conversationalist who never lacked fascinating 
material on any subject, and the creator of a style which has been and 
still is, in some respects, the most admirable in all English prose. 
There is no greater master of the English sentence or the English 
paragraph. Of course, Macaulay's greatest claim to eminence as a 
writer lies ih ihe extent and interest of his biographical and historical 
works; but you remember Landor's lines about him as a poet, on 
page 149. 

As a poet, his chief excellence consists in the vigor and swift move- 
ment of his tales of heroic action. The most famous. The Lays of 
Ancient Rome, portray the heroic spirit of the Roman Republic in 
verse not unlike the traditional verse of the English ballad. 

In IvRY, the ballad lines are written in their original form, — coup- 
lets of seven beats. In the battle of Ivry, Henry of Navarre fought 
with small numbers, insufficient supplies, even food; but with a 
cheerfulness and courage which made him king of France. His cry, 
"Rally around my white plume," was as effective in the battle of 
Ivry, as Nelson's famous signal at Trafalgar. 

CARDINAL NEWMAN 

Newman is one of the few greatest masters of English prose. He 
was great also as a scholar and theologian. This hymn of his, so well 
known yet so unworn, is suggestive of the great religious struggle of 
his life, as a result, of which he definitely put aside all intellectual 
doubts, and embraced Faith as "the evidence of things not seen" 
by entering the Roman Catholic communion, where he eventually 
became a cardinal. In the things of the intellect, however, as con- 
trasted with those of the spirit, Newman was to the last the most 
formidable debater in the age of intellectual giants, — the age of 
Herbert Spencer, Huxley, Tyndall, and Darwin, to mention a few of 
the eminent scientists only. 

MRS. BROWNING 

Elizabeth Barrett, secluded and invalid daughter of an English 
gentleman of wealth, wrote herself into Robert Browning's heart, 
and read him into her own, even before either had seen the other. 
Then they met, followed their romantic attachment with a romantic 
marriage, and that with a long life together of wedded Joy in sunny 
Italy. The three Sonnets given here are selected from her series of 



Introductions and Notes 353 

forty-four, written to her lover, given shyly to him after their mar- 
riage, by him entitled Sounds from the Portuguese and published as 
"translations." These three are numbers one, fourteen, and forty- 
two of the series. A Court Lady shows how sympathetically Mrs. 
Browning entered into the life of her Italian friends. 



TENNYSON 

Tenn\'Son followed Wordsworth as Laureate. His works manifest 
not only genius but extraordinary cultivation — in science, history, 
legends, social problems, religion, — all infused with the truest national 
sympathy and the loftiest idealism. Superadded to all these traits 
and powers was the most varied and masterly gift of expression and 
an art which found no exertion too hard, and no aim too high; which 
neglected no detail of content or form; which wrought precious words 
into the most exquisite melody, grace, and power. 

Break, Break, Break is a quiet but touching lament for the loss of 
his dearest friend — Arthur Henry Hallam. It was for Hallam also 
that Tennyson wrote his greatest poem, In Memoriam. 

The Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaclava was on the Rus- 
sians. Balaclava is a city of the Crimea, the great peninsula which 
extends down into the Black Sea. It was once, in the days of Ulysses, 
the city of the Laestrygonians, and its harbor is well described by 
Homer in the Odyssey. 

The Higher Pantheism is called higher in contrast with that 
of the simple shepherds and goatherds who worshipped Pan in ancient 
Greece as the God of Nature. 

A Triblite to his Mother is taken from the closing canto of 
the Princess, where Prince and Princess have become reconciled and 
aware of their deep need for each other. ■ The Prince's ideal of woman 
was inspiring to Princess Ida, who had hitherto attempted a mannish 
role. It is also good for us to have such an ideal described in these 
days, when the place of woman in the world is being determined anew. 
It is an interesting passage to compare with Wordsworth's She was a 
Phantom oj Delight, and with Byron's She Walks in Beauty. 



THACKERAY 

England's greatest novelist wrote verses as he drew pictures — for 
love, — love of fun, and love of people. 



354 Introductions and Notes 



ROBERT BROWNING 

To the eye of the reader it would appear that Browning laid less 
emphasis on mere beauty of form in poetry than Tennyson, more 
on its spirit and substance. The result of this impression is that 
Tennyson seems'^s an artist greater than Browning. But when one 
has broken through the crust of Browning's style — abrupt, vigorous, 
outspoken, half-spoken, — one may be more often moved and more 
deeply moved than by Tennyson's smoother art. Each of these 
great masters had his own view of what constituted art. Something 
of the contrast may be seen by studying together Tennyson's Crossing 
The Bar and Browning's Prospice or {The Epilogue to "Asolando"), 
each a poem which deals with the thought of the poet himself about 
the end of earthly life, and the continuance of life beyond the grave. 
Browning is one of the manliest of poets — in his courage, his frank- 
ness, and his passion both of admiration and of scorn; and in his own 
free and radical style he is a great artist — one of the Olympians. 

PHEXDipprDES. The Greek motto means. Rejoice, we conquer! The 
first stanza is an invocation to Pan, the God of Nature. 
Daemons, spirits. 

Ye of the bow and buskin, Phoebus and Artemis. 
tettix, a gold grasshopper which each archon wore as a sign of his 
office as one of the rulers of Athens. The pride of the archon arose 
from his being a native-born Athenian. Like the grasshopper, 
he had sprung from the soil (look up autochlhon in the Standard 
Dictionary). 

Cavalier Tunes. Note how the metre tramps into the inn in the 
first song, stops to revel in loyalty in the second, and then gallops off 
in the third. The spirit of these songs is what makes them worth 
reading. Details such as words and allusions are of far less relative 
importance than usual. 

My Last Duchess, the most awful self-conviction possible for the 
complacent, proud, flint-hearted Duke. He is the embodiment of 
elegance and breeding, artistic taste and business shrewdness. But 
the motive in all is self-love. How curious it is that after all, the 
better we know the Duke, the easier it is for us to forget him, and 
think only of his beautiful wife, who was as unselfish and lovable as 
woman could be. 

Tray is a plea against vivisection. Browning loved all animals, 
but especially dogs and horses. 



Introductions and Notes 355 



EDWARD LEAR 

Lear was the first great English writer of nonsense rhymes. Ruskin 
placed Lear's Nonsense Book at the head of his "One Hundred Great- 
est Books." Of course this honor was paid to the entertaining and 
refreshing powers of the book — its funny verses and pictures, not to 
anything that is ordinarily recognized as great poetry or art. 

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 

Friend of Tennj'son, and Hallam, and especially of Matthew 
Arnold, who succeeded him in the chair of poetry at O.xford; friend 
also of Longfellow and his fellow-workers on this side of the Atlantic, 
for he was resident at Cambridge for several years. 

CHARLES KINGSLEY 

Kingsley was a great man who took pleasure in childlike fun and 
simple good-feeling. One would hardly guess the great novelist or 
social reformer, from his Water Babies. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 

Matthew Arnold was the famous son of the famous Dr. Thomas 
Arnold, headmaster of Rugby. Most of his poems are too serious or 
too difficult for 3'oung readers. But there are exceptions, as Sohrab 
and Rustiim, which is often read by schoolboys. Arnold was a scholar, 
critic, lecturer, and e.xpert on education. His services to the schools 
and universities of England were invaluable. He was long inspector 
of the schools of England, doing all in his power to make popular 
education sound and attractive, and he was for thirty years Professor 
of English Poetry at Oxford. 

COVENTRY PATMORE 

Coventry Patmore was a widely known writer of both prose and 
verse, and he was twenty-two years one of the librarians in the British 
Museum. 



356 



Introductions and Notes 



LEWIS CARROLL 



Lineal descendant, as humorist, of Edward Lear. He is best 
known by his two "Alice" books — Alice in Wonderland, and Through 
the Looking Glass, stories which he wrote for real live children whom 
he loved, but which are read, remembered, quoted, and enjoyed, 
every day, by grown-up women and men in England and in America 
too. By his real name, Charles L. Dodgson, he was known as a great 
mathematician. 

GEORGE DU MAURIER 

This clever half-Frenchman brought to bear on the pages of Punch 
the perennial rays of his wit and humor, not onl)^ in the quaintest 
and most entertaining of clean jokes, but in the incomparable pic- 
tures he drew to match them. When he was old and growing bUnd, he 
surprised the world at large by producing the most widely discussed 
novel of its decade — Trilby. 

EDWARD BOWEN 

Distinguished not as a poet, but as a schoolmaster. Yet, teaching 
at Harrow for forty years, he wrote for the boys and men of that great 
school the greatest of all school songs — Forty Years On, the song 
which is known as the Harrow National Anthem. Yet this was only 
one of many good songs, and they were as fortunately set to music by 
the great organist and composer, John P'armer, whose term of service 
at Harrow largely coincided with Edward Bowen's. Bowen was re- 
markable in many ways, but in none more than his participation in 
the football games of the school up to the last year of his life. He 
died of heart-disease, while he was making his annual bicycle-trip 
of research on one of the battle-fields of Europe. The country in 
which Caesar's campaigns were waged was the object of Bowen's 
special interest, and his knowledge of it was so intimate that the 
Commentaries became, in his class room, a living narrative. 

AUSTIN DOBSON 

There is a rare spirit in these three selections — gentleness, delicacy, 
wit, heroism, all finding expression in lines that exquisitely suggest 
the Frenchiness and quaintness of certain verse of the Seventeenth 
Century, called vers de societe. 



Introductions and Notes 357 

The Cure's Progress describes the morning walk of a village 

priest humble in station but sweet and large in spirit. 

grande place, the big square. 

Hotel de Ville, the town hall. 

fleuriste, tlower-girl. 

pompier, fireman. 

march e, market. 

pain d'epice, gingerbread. 

Merchant of fruit, transhterates Marchand de fruit, which Dobson 
evidentl}- expects the reader to supply, to rhyme with the second 
line below. 

Ma foi, oui, my faith, yes. 

Bon Dieu garde M'sieu, May the good God care for Monsieur! 

Sous Prefet, Deputy Police-Magistrate. 

Urceus Exit, It turned out a jug. Here is a note by Mr. Robinson, 
the Latin Master of Laicreiiceville: "At the beginning of the Ars 
Poetica, Horace objects to excessive freedom of the artistic imag- 
ination, and argues that a work should be consistent with itself. 
He shows the absurdity of combining serpents with birds, and 
lambs with tigers, and continues — Amphora cmpit inslitui, cur- 
rente rota cur urceus exit?" (A Greek vase begins to be shaped; 
why, as the wheel turns, should it come out a common jug? 
.\n ode was intended, and it came out a sonnet!) 

WILLIAM MORRIS 

Morris was one of a group of young men, living in or near London, 
who sought to raise standards of living and of taste to the simplicity 
and beauty of their dreams. He invented the "Morris Chair"; led 
interesting enterprises in the manufacture of household furniture 
and decorations, and in printing; preached a powerful socialism; and 
wrote much poetry of a vigorous but melancholy quality which con- 
cerned itself largely with legends of the heroic pagans of Northern 
Lands. The life of Morris was full to the brim with interesting ac- 
tivities, and his services to English life in his day were not only great 
but thoroughly wholesome. 

WILLIAM HENLEY 

Henley was an editor, a critic, a poet, a friend of Stevenson's, and 
a man of vigor and intellect, but given to strong prejudices, even to 
bitterness. 



358 Introductions and Notes 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

Stevenson was a lifelong and heroic invalid, a cheerful and inspiring 
friend to many different kinds of people, a great artist in prose, and a 
sweet singer in verse. 

"V WILLIAM WATSON 

One of the most notable living poets of Great Britain. 

HENRY NEWBOLT 

Among contemporary poets, Newbolt is distinguished for variety, 
elegance, truth of fact and feeling, and reverence and tenderness of 
spirit. These qualities of mind, joined with a flexible and painstaking 
art. should spell greatness. 
Qui procul hinc, qui ante diem 
Per lit; sed miles, sed pro pairia. 

Who died far from here and before his time, but as a soldier should, 
for his country. 

RUDYARD KIPLING 

Born in India, inheriting an artistic nature, deriving from his 
surroundings a sense of the imperial greatness of England, traveling 
widely and observing keenly, entering deeply into the enthusiasms 
and prejudices of many classes of men, Kipling finally became the 
amateur spokesman of the consciousness of the British Empire. As 
no other man has done, he has taught the parts of the Empire to 
known one another, and in some degree he has taught the Empire 
to know itself. 

Recessional. Victoria's week of Diamond Jubilee was over, and 
the glories which had filled London with oratory and "the pomp of 
power " were fading, when in the columns of the Times appeared, 
with the modesty of filial devotion, these inspired lines, at once a 
glorious tribute to the magnificence of British power and a plea to 
Britain to lay that power at the feet of God. 

JOHN MASEFIELD 

The most obvious power of this new English poet is the power to 
tell a story in verse so vividly that the reader forgets the words and 



Introductions and Notes 359 

thinks only of the actions and the feelings of the characters. But 
this is not his only gift. He has made beautiful poems of description 
and reflection, a volume of rare sonnets, and two tragedies. In all 
his work there is strength, sincerity, insight, and an easy mastery of 
expression. As in the case of Clough and Thackeray, Stevenson 
and Kipling, Masefield has warm personal ties binding him to 
.America. 

.\LFRED NOYES 

Like Masefield, Noyes is as well known and appreciated in America 
as in England. His favorite themes are drawn from the folk-lore of 
England and from English history and tradition. There is brilHant 
promise in the lively imagination no less than in the swift and musical 
verse of this very real young poet. 



X 



INDEX OF POETS, TITLES, AND 
FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

Abou Ben Adhem (May his tribe increase!) 158 

Addison, Joseph 70 

Admiral's Ghost, The 299 

Agincourt 30 

A is an Angel of blushing eighteen 258 

Alexander's Feast, or the Power of Music 64 

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair 141 

Alphabet, The 258 

Although I enter not 218 

Asolando, Epilogue from 246 

As ships becalmed at eve 252 

Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold. The 161 

At the church gate 218 

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep time 246 

Auld Lang Syne 117 

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones 57 

Bailiff's Daughter of Islington, The 22 

Ballad of East and West, A 283 

Barbara Allen's Cruelty 21 

Behold her, single in the field 122 

Believe me if all these endearing young charms 152 

Bid me to live and 1 will live 51 

Blake, William 107 

Bloodhorse, The 160 

Blow, blow, thou Winter Wind 36 

Boadicea, an Ode 91 

Bonnie Doon no 

Border Ballad 140 

Bosom Sin, The 54 

BowEN, Edward 262 

Boy and the Wolf, The 121 

Break, break, break 202 

361 



362 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 

PAGE 

Breathes there a man 139 

Brook's Song, The 211 

Brown, Thomas Edward 258 

Browne, William 49 

Browning, Ei^zabeth Barrett 198 

Browning, Robert 221 

Bruce to his Army 119 

Burial of Sir John Moore, The 167 

Burghers' Battle, The 267 

Burns, Robert 109 

Byron, Lord George Gordon i6i 

Calverley, Charles Stuart 258 

Campbell, Thomas 150 

Canterbury Tales, The i 

Carey, Henry 79 

Cargoes 293 

Carroll, Lewis 259 

Casabianca 181 

Cataract of Lodore, The 143 

Cavalier Tunes 235 

Charge of the Light Brigade, The 203 

Chaucer, Geoffrey i 

Chevy Chase 11 

Clerk, The 5 

Clerk there was of Oxenford also, A 5 

Clifton Chapel '. 280 

Cloud, The 172 

Clough, Arthur Hugh 251 

Cock is crowing. The 125 

Coleridge, Hartley 186 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 140 

Come live with me and be my Love 34 

Come Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace 29 

Composed upon Westminster Bridge 132 

Condemned to Hope's delusive mine 83 

Contented John 155 

Cornwall, Barry 160 

Court Lady, A 199 

Cowper,William 91 

Crabbed age and Youth 39 



Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 363 

PAGE 

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud 56 

Crossing The Bar 215 

Cunningham, Allan 156 

Cupid and Campaspe 28 

Cupid and my Campaspe played 28 

Curb's Progress, The 265 

Curfew Tolls the Knell of Parting day, The 85 

Cyriack, this three years day, these eyes, though clear 58 

Delight in Disorder 50 

DiBDiN, Charles 105 

Diverting History' of John Gilpin, The 95 

DoBSON, Austin 265 

DoDGSON, Charles L 259 

Douglas, William 193 

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away 278 

Drake's Drum 278 

Dream)' rhymer's measured snore, The 149 

Drink to me only with thine eyes 43 

Dryden, John 61 

Dyer, Sir Edward 24 

Eagle, The 210 

Earth has not anything to show more fair 132 

Elegy on the Death of a mad dog. An 90 

Elegy written in a Country Churchyard, An 85 

Elixir, The 54 

End of the Play, The 219 

Enforst to seek some covert nigh at hand 27 

Epigram, An 140 

Epigram 77 

Epilogue from Asolando, The 246 

Epitaph on a Hare 94 

Epitaph on the Admirable Dramatic poet, William Shakspere . . 58 

Epitaph on Charles II 69 

Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke 49 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless mind 166 

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky 128 

Eve of Waterloo, The 162 

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see 51 

Fair stood the wind for France 30 

Farewell, Ye dungeons dark and strong 118 



364 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 

PAGE 

Father of all ! in every age 75 

Fear Death? To feel the fog in my throat 247 

First 1 salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock 230 

Five-and-thirty black slaves 276 

Flock of shefep^that leisurely pass by, A 133 

For a' that and a' that 115 

Forty years on when afar and asunder 262 

From the bonny bells of heather 273 

From the Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot 78 

From the Epistle to Mr. Addison 78 

Full little knowest thou that hast not tried 26 

Gaffer Gray 104 

Gamarra is a dainty steed 160 

Gardener's Song, The 260 

Garden is a lovesome thing, God wot, A 258 

Gather Ye rosebuds while ye may 49 

Gay, John 74 

Genteel in personage 79 

Give to me the life I love 272 

God of our fathers. Known of old 292 

Goldsmith, Oliver 90 

God prosper long our noble King 1 1 

Going down hill on a bicycle 277 

Good little boys should never say 193 

Good man was ther of religioun, A 6 

Good people all of every sort 9 

Gray, Thomas 84 

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass 159 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit 168 

Half a league, half a league 203 

Happy Warrior, The 1 29 

Hark, hark, the Lark 38 

Harp that once through Tara's halls. The 153 

He clasps the crag with crooked hands 210 

Heather Ale, The 273 

Hemans, Felicia Dorothea 181 

Henley, William Ernest 269 

Henry V to his Troops before Harfleur 42 

Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with purple were dark. 199 
Herbert, George 53 



I 



Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 365 

PAGE 

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling 105 

Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King 690 

Here lies whom hound did ne'er pursue 94 

Herrick, Robert 49 

Herve Riel 225 

He thought he saw an elephant 260 

Higher Pantheism, The 210 

Highland Marj' 112 

Highwayman, The 295 

Ho! Why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray 104 

HoLCROFT, Thomas 104 

Home 269 

Home they brought her warrior dead 205 

Hood, Thomas 190 

Hope deferred 26 

How do I love thee 198 

How Does the water 143 

How doth the little busy bee 72 

How fond are men of rule and place 74 

How soon hath time, the subtle thief of youth 56 

How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix 223 

Hunt, Leigh 157 

I am his Highness' dog at Kew 77 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers 172 

I come from haunts of coot and hern 211 

If a man who turnips cries 82 

If a stranger passed the tent of Hoseyn 241 

If thou must love me, let it be for naught 199 

I intended an ode 266 

I know a thing that's most uncommon 77 

I met a traveler from an antique land 177 

I must go down to the seas again 295 

Incident of the French Camp 221 

In Scarlet town, where I was born 21 

Inscribed on the Collar of a Dog 77 

Invictus 270 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 142 

I recollect a nurse called Ann 254 

I remember, I remember 190 

I saw a ship a-suiling 294 



366 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 

PAGE 

I sent for Ratcliffe; was so ill 70 

I sprang to the saddle, and Joris, and he ... ? 223 

Is there for honest Poverty 115 

I tell you a tale tonight 301 

1 thought how once Theocritus had sung 198 

It is not growing like a tree 44 

It little profits that, an idle King 208 

It was a lover and his lass 39 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 128 

"I would," says Fox, " a tax devise" 107 

Ivry 1 94 

Jabberwocky 259 

Jack and Joe 264 

Jack's a scholar, as all men say 264 

Jenny kissed me when we met 159 

John Anderson my jo, John iii 

John Gilpin was a citizen 95 

Johnson, Samuel 82 

JONSON, Ben 43 

Jumblies, The 248 

Keats, John 182 

Kentish Sir Byng Stood for his King 235 

Keyboard, The 276 

King Francis was a hearty king and loved a royal sport 157 

King, Henry 52 

King sits in Dunfermline town, The 8 

Kingsley, Charles 253 

Kipling, Rudyard 281 

Knight, The 2 

Knight ther was and that a worthy man, A 2 

Kubla Khan ■ 142 

Lad that is gone, A 271 

Laird o' Cockpen, he's proud and he's great. The 120 

Lamb, The 107 

Landor, Walter Savage 148 

Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom 197 

L'Envoi 293 

Like to the falling of a star 52 

Limerick, A 251 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern 182 



Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 367 

PAGE 

Little Billee 216 

Little boy was set to keep, A 1 21 

Little Lamb, who made thee 107 

Little work, a little play, A 262 

Lochin\-ar 1^5 

Locker-Lampson, Frederick 254 

Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate 19 

Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us 'round 54 

Lovelace, Richard 60 

Lover, Samuel 187 

Lyly, John 28 

Macaulay 149 

Macaulay, Thomas Babington iq4 

Macpherson's Farewell 118 

Maiden's Ideal of a Husband, A 7q 

March, March, Ettrick and Teviotdale 140 

Marlowe, Christopher 34 

Mary Morison 112 

Masefield, John 293 

]\L\URiER, George du 262 

Maxwelton's braes are bonnj' 193 

Metrical feet : lesson for a boy 141 

Milton, John 56 

Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour 132 

Moore, Thomas 152 

Morris, William 267 

Motherwell, William 186 

Monsieur the cure down the street 265 

Much have I travel'd in the realms of gold 183 

Muleykeh 241 

Music, when soft voices die 177 

My days among the dead are passed 147 

My Garden 258 

My good blade carves the casques of men 206 

My heart's in the Highlands 116 

My Last Duchess 237 

My little son, who looked from thoughtful eyes 256 

My mind to me a kingdom is 24 

Mysterious Night! when our first parent 148 

My temples throb, my pulses boil 192 



368 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 

PAGE 

My true love hath my heart 29 

Nairne, Carolina Lady 120 

Newman, John Henry 197 

No! 192 

Noble Nature,- Xhe 44 

No sun, no moon 192 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note 167 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are. ... 194 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 184 

Ode to the West Wind 178 

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall 

meet 283 

O, Falmouth is a fine town, with ships in the bay 269 

Of all the girls that are so sweet 79 

Of a' the airts the wind can blow no 

Oft in the stilly night 153 

Old Ballads 8 

Old Song Re-sung, An 294 

O listen, listen, ladies gay 137 

O Mary, at thy window be 112 

O, my love's like a red, red rose 109 

On a certain Lady at Court 77 

On a Girdle 55 

Once more unto the breach, dear friends 42 

On Chillon 166 

One day I wrote her name upon the strand 26 

One honest John Tompkins, a hedger and ditcher 155 

One night came on a hurricane 106 

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer 183 

On his Blindness 57 

On his deathbed poor Lubin lies 69 

On his having Arrived to the Age of Twenty-Three 56 

On Linden, when the sun was low 151 

On the Death of a Favorite Cat 84 

On the Death of Dr. Robert Levet 83 

On the Grasshopper and the Cricket 184 

On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 57 

On the Loss of the Royal George 93 

On the sea, and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two 225 

Others abide our question. Thou art free 254 



Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 369 

PAGE 

Our God, our Help in Ages Past 73 

Out of the night that covers me 270 

O wild West Wind, Thou breath of Autumn's being 178 

Owl and the Pussycat, The 250 

O young Lochinvar is come out of the West 135 

Ozymandias 177 

Parson, The 6 

Passionate Shepherd to his Love, The 34 

Patmore, Co\T!;ntry 256 

Peace to all such ! But were there one whose fires 78 

Pheidippides 230 

Pillar of the Cloud, The 197 

Play is done, the curtain drops, The 219 

Poetrj^ of Earth is never dead, The 184 

Politeness 193 

Poor Soul, the center of my sinful earth 42 

Pope, Alexander 75 

Prioress, The 4 

Prior, Matthew , 69 

Procter, Bryan Waller 160 

Prospice 247 

Proud ]\Iaisie is in the wood 137 

Pulley, The 53 

Qua Cursum Yentus 252 

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir 293 

" Rather be dead than praised,"' he said 267 

Reasonable Affliction, A 69 

Recessional 292 

Red, red Rose, A 109 

Requiem 276 

Requiescat 255 

Ring out, wild bells 214 

Rochester, Earl of 69 

Rory o' More 187 

Rosabelle 137 

Ruth 191 

Sailor's Consolation, The 106 

Sally in our Alley 79 

Say not the struggle naught availeth 251 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled 119 



370 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 

PAGE 

Scott, Sir Walter 135 

Sea Dirge, A 37 

Sea Fever 295 

Selection from the Faerie Queene 27 

Self-dependence^ 255 

Shakspere 254 

Shakspere and Milton 148 

Shakspere, William 36 

Shall I, wasting in despair 47 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 1 24 

She is not fair to outward view 186 

She was a phantom of delight 123 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe 168 

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley 107 

Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake? 295 

She stood breast-high among the corn 191 

She walks in beauty 166 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot 117 

Sidney, Sir Philip 20 

Silvia 38 

Simplex Munditiis 44 

Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part 30 

Sing me a hero! Quench my thirst 239 

Sing me a song of a lad that is gone 271 

Sir Galahad 206 

Sir Patrick Spens 8 

Slumber did mj* spirit seal, A 125 

Sluggard, The 71 

Smith, Sydney 134 

SoHtary Reaper, The 122 

Sneezing « 158 

Song for St. Cecilia's Day 62 

Song of Sherwood, A 293 

Sorrows of Werther 217 

Souls of Poets, dead and gone 182 

Southey, Robert 143 

Splendor falls on castle walls. The 204 

Spacious Firmament on High, The 7° 

Spenser, Edmund 25 

Squire, The 3 



Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 371 

PAGE 

Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere 78 

Steed, a steed of matchless speed, A 186 

Stevenson, Robert Louis 271 

Still to be neat, still to be dressed 44 

Strew on her roses, roses 255 

Suckling, Sir John 59 

Sunset and Evening Star 215 

Sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains. The. 210 

Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright 53 

Sweet disorder in the dress, A 50 

Sweet is the rose but grows upon a brier 25 

Tabard Inn, The i 

Tamburlaine to Calyphas 35 

Taylor, Jane 155 

Teach me, mj' God and King 54 

Tell me not. Sweet, I am unkind 60 

Tennyson, Alfred 202 

Terrible Infant, A 254 

Thackeray, William Makepeace 216 

That's my last Duchess, painted on the wall 237 

That which her slender waist confined 55 

The boy stood on the burning deck 181 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods 164 

There was an old man in a tree 251 

There was a sound of revelry by night 162 

There was a youth, a well-belo\'ed youth 22 

Ther was a Nonne, a Prioresse ■ 4 

There's a breathless hush in the close tonight 279 

There's no sense in going further — it's the edge of cultivation .... 288 

There were three sailors of Bristol city 216 

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees 297 

The 3'ear's at the spring 246 

They went to sea in a sieve, they did 248 

Thick rise the spear-shafts o'er the land 267 

This is the chapel: here, my son 280 

Thomson, James 81 

Thou shalt not have a foot unless thou bear 35 

Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Switzerland 133 

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness 184 

Three poets in three distant ages born 61 



372 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 

PAGE 

Tiger, The io8 

Tiger, Tiger io8 

'Tis the last rose of summer 154 

'Tis the voice of the skiggard; I heard him complain 71 

To Althea from.j)rison 60 

To Anthea who may command him anything 51 

To a Mouse 113 

To a Skylark 168 

To Celia 43 

To Cyriack Skinner 58 

To Daffodils Si 

To draw no envy, Shakspere, on thy name 45 

Toll for the brave! 93 

To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars 60 

To make this condiment, your poet begs 134 

To Mira, on her incomparable poems 71 

To Minerva 192 

Tom Bowling 105 

Tongue of England, that which myriads. The 148 

To night 148 

To the Lord General Cromwell 56 

To the Grasshopper and the Cricket 159 

To the memory of my beloved Master, William Shakspere 45 

To the Virgins to make much of Time 49 

Toys, The 256 

Tray 239 

Tribute to his Mother, A 213 

Trochee trips from long to short 141 

Turner, Elizabeth '. ■ 193 

'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won 64 

'Twas brillig and the slithy to\'es 259 

'Twas on a lofty vase's side 84 

Two Views of AdcUson 78 

Two voices are there, one is of the Sea 133 

Ulysses 208 

Underneath this sable hearse 49 

Under the greenwood tree 3^ 

Under the Portrait of Milton 61 

Under the wide and starry skj' 276 

Universal Prayer 75 



Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 373 

PAGE 

Urceus Exit 266 

Vagabond, The 272 

Virtue 53 

Vitai Lampada ^ 279 

Watson, William 276 

Watts, Isaac 71 

Weary of myself, and sick of asking 255 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie 113 

Werther had a love for Charlotte 217 

Wet sheet and a flowing sea, A 156 

Whan that Aprille with his schowres swoote i 

We've fought with many men acrost the seas 281 

What a moment, what a doubt 158 

What is an epigram? A dwarfish whole 140 

What needs my Shakspere for his honored bones 58 

When all the world is young, lad 253 

Whenas in silks my Julia goes 50 

When Britain first, at Heaven's command Si 

When dress'd in laurel wreaths you shine 71 

When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted 

and dried 293 

When first I saw sweet Peggy 188 

When God at first made man 53 

When I consider how my light is spent 57 

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes 40 

When in the chronicle of wasted time 41 

When love with unconfined wings 60 

When the British warrior queen 91 

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 41 

Where the bee sucks, there suck 1 37 

White, Joseph Blanco 148 

Who is Silvia? What is she 38 

Who is the happy warrior? Who is he 129 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover 59 

WiLMOT, John 69 

Wisdom and Spirit of the Universe 126 

Wither, George 47 

With him ther was his sone, a young Squyer 3 

\yith lifted feet, hands still 277 

Wolfe, Charles 167 



374 Index of Poets, Titles, First Lines 

PAGE 

Wordsworth, William 122 

Work without Hope 141 

World is too much with us, The 134 

Written in March 125 

Ye banks and braes o' Bonnie Doon . . '. no 

Ye banks atwibraes and streams around 112 

Ye mariners of England 150 

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come 77 

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon , 221 

Young and Old 253 

Young Rory O'More courted Kathleen Bawn 187 



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